


Spare Tires

by Bibliotecaria_D



Series: Third Wheel [2]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Third Wheel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2018-05-19 20:20:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5979832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scenes and side-stories from Third Wheel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sunstreaker/Smokescreen with Sideswipe on guard ; Mirage bothers Cliffjumper.

Scenes and side-stories from Third Wheel.

**Title:** Spare Tires  
 **Warning:** This inhabits a weird area where it’s a humor fic, but people sensitive to misunderstandings causing serious discomfort probably shouldn’t read.  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Autobots. And some Decepticons. Everybody?  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Scenes set in the Third Wheel fic universe without actually being in the story. This first part is ficlets I originally put in Candy From Strangers.

 

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part One**   
**[* * * * *]**

**[* * * * *]**

_Sunstreaker - "H = How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.”_

**[* * * * *]**

He didn’t get at first why Sideswipe took up a guard position by the bunk. Privacy wasn’t a big deal in the soldier barracks. Blinking at the frontliner’s back, Smokescreen sank down on the bunk under Sunstreaker’s insistent hands. The golden mech had been priming him all shift for this, however, and he quickly forgot that Sideswipe was glaring at anyone who even paused to take something out of a locker. He’d thought the other twin would be joining in, but apparently not. Well, that was fine. More attention for Sunstreaker.

Sunstreaker pushed him down, straddled him, and caught him in a heated kiss that drove everything but lust from Smokescreen’s helm. Big hands fondled his chest greedily. The outthrust nature of a Praxian frametype forced Sunstreaker to almost lunge over it, bearing downward to find his mouth, but that just gave him more of an advantage. He had Smokescreen down and helpless beneath him, and the rev of his engine betrayed how much he liked it.

Which was why it surprised Smokescreen when the bigger Autobot sat back slightly. With a wary glance over his shoulder at the rest of the barracks, Sunstreaker turned his attention back to the prone mech. Those black hands, fine tools of war, left Smokescreen’s bumper and rose to slide up under the heavy gold shield of his own chest.

It clicked.

As Sunstreaker opened his hood, Smokescreen’s fans stopped, and he suddenly understood. Sideswipe wasn’t standing guard over them fragging. He was standing guard over a piece of art, like a security guard following around the last treasure of a long-destroyed gallery, something so precious he couldn’t risk it being destroyed even by those he counted his allies.

And Smokescreen, the lone patron allowed in the private showing, looked into a spark chamber etched and whorled in achingly beautiful patterns, fragile carvings tucked behind immense layers of tough, crude slabs of armor plating. Across his face danced streaks of light from a glittering sun, a star so close he could touch it, hold it, feel its warmth.

But no one would ever capture it, not under Sideswipe’s cautious guard.

**[* * * * *]**

_Cliffjumper/Mirage - “B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s) + Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)”_

**[* * * * *]**

“M’trying t’ sleep,” Cliffjumper mumbled into the bunk covering. Tattered as it was, the thick pad was still more comfortable than anything anyone else had. Pads were a luxury. Color him unsurprised that Mirage had managed to keep this one throughout multiple transfers, undercover missions, and the war in general. He preferred to recharge in Mirage’s bunk because of it -- alright, maybe because of the mech that came with the bunk, as well -- but not when Mirage got all touchy like this.

The red minibot twitched, grunting.

“Cut it out.”

A fine hand traced one of his helm projections with the lightest, tickling touch. The curved shape of the horn seemed to fascinate Mirage. Cliffjumper would never get a handle on what about him captivated the aristocratic spy, but that was probably intentional on Mirage’s part. The noblemech liked his aura of mystery to remain intact. Cliffjumper liked to poke holes in it. They’d reached an understanding.

And that understanding included not molesting his helm after interfacing. He knew what that did to the minibot! “Stoppit,” Cliffjumper tried again. “Gotta shift soon.”

“Not so soon,” Mirage whispered, and slender fingers cupped over one helm projection, pressing in and drawing up until they swirled around the pointed tip. The broad, wet surface of a tongue flicked a teasing lick up the same path.

Cliffjumper was suddenly very awake. Sleep wasn’t the only use for that bunk pad under them.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	2. Pt. 2: Optimus Prime is a sucker for romance.

**Title:** Spare Tires  
**Warning:** This inhabits a weird area where it’s a humor fic, but people sensitive to misunderstandings causing serious discomfort probably shouldn’t read.  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Continuity:** G1  
**Characters:** Autobots. And some Decepticons. Everybody?  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** Scenes set in the Third Wheel fic universe without actually being in the story.

 

 **[* * * * *]**  
**Part Two**  
**[* * * * *]**

 

One of the advantages of being able to vet his own personnel file meant he had a sterling record. Mostly sterling, that was, since a perfect record would be suspicious. A few notes on his gambling habit served as a genuine warning to his commanding officers and a way to look trustworthy. Smokescreen: a good soldier, but not _too_ good or his file would look as doctored as it really was. 

As it was, Smokescreen had clearance for everything his official rank allowed and a lot only his unofficial rank cleared him for. What that meant in terms of mission staffing was Red Alert trusted him more than normal. Well, normal for someone who hadn’t been working with him for a couple million years, or passed his random -- though ingenious -- background checks and character investigations. Or been within the Security Director’s direct line-of-sight for at least a thousand years. 

So not very much, but more than most new transfers. Although Smokescreen had transferred in over two years ago and had a drug test recently, so ‘new’ was pushing it. 

Red Alert’s security measures were a little stringent, okay? But they worked. 

For the most part, excluding the fact that Smokescreen had leveraged his clean record to infiltrate the Autobots. He was Red Alert’s biggest fear come to life, and he was currently sitting in the P.O.W. camp’s monitor room running a loop on the room’s surveillance camera. Red Alert, back at the outpost, would see nothing but a 15 minute rerun of Smokescreen playing a card game against himself. 

In reality, Smokescreen brought out a very small, very illegal palmtop transmitter and keyed in a code Soundwave would kill for. Jazz could probably accidentally dial if Prowl smiled at him at the right moment.

A tiny videofeed appeared on the screen. “Hello, Smokescreen.”

“Hey bossbot.” Smokescreen cocked his head, optics concerned. “You look tired.”

“I **am** tired.”

“Yeah? What’s happening on your end?” He settled back in the chair to listen, one optic on the prison monitors and the other on his Prime. Red Alert would have a spark-attack if he knew the kind of information Smokescreen regularly gleaned from the leader of the Autobots. Unapproved communications! A spy in their midst! Behavioral profiles and action reports made through improper channels! Yadda yadda yadda.

Smokescreen spent ten minutes listening to Optimus Prime, leader and inspiration, whine about a set of alien delegates from the Galactic Council who’d insulted him, the Autobots, the planet, and Primus, all within their first four minutes off the shuttle. Graphic choking motions were made at the monitor, swiftly followed by a guilty look as the Prime instantly felt bad. “You can’t even manage violence in effigy,” Smokescreen said, amused.

Abashed, Optimus ducked his head. “Violence begets violence.”

“What does saying our god has His head stuffed up His exhaust system beget?”

Grumpimus Prime narrowed his optics. “An escort made up of Kup and Blurr. If any of them manage to wedge a word in edgewise from now until they leave, I will be **very** disappointed in those two.”

Smokescreen glanced away from the monitor screens to grin. “That’s my Prime.”

“Hmmph.” Rubbing the shutters over his optics, Optimus sighed and changed the subject. “Your report has downloaded. Anything I need to be aware of immediately?”

“Could be. There’s a situation here with a potential information source, and we’re going to need your help if you can swing it.” Smokescreen laid out the details of what Needlenose was venturing toward negotiating over. Nothing was set in stone, but that would change as soon as Smokescreen nailed Jazz’s feet down for two seconds to get a yes or no answer on whether the wedding would actually be allowed. Then he could start actually planning things.

Like when Optimus should arrive on the scene. A Prime was still legally recognized as an authority figure among Decepticons. Megatron wanted the Primacy, after all. He couldn’t take it and expect anyone to care if he completely undermined its religious role. Hence why Optimus Prime was necessary to legally join Needlenose and Horri-Bull in marriage recognized by both factions.

Technically, Bluestreak could conduct a civil ceremony inside the prison camp as commander, even if a low-ranking one, but they’d just be going through the motions. An Autobot officer had no authority in a Decepticon civil ceremony, even if the two Decepticons in question cooperated, because Autobots didn’t have authority over Decepticons except through martial law. Combining force of arms and a conjunx endura bonding was all well and good over on the other side, but the ‘Cons got their backs up if Autobots were the ones with the guns.

A shotgun wedding, Smokescreen had been surprised to find out, meant something completely different among Decepticons. Apparently it was quite traditional. Almost romantic, in a _’We’re doing this and you don’t have a choice!’_ way of showing a mech his paramour really did care. Objections to the union of the two individuals in question were made by hauling out an even bigger gun, and then a brawl was held in place of a reception. Smokescreen gathered that the honeymoon didn’t happen when a shotgun wedding went awry, although it was possible he was understanding that wrong. Maybe the happy couple just didn’t get their deposit back. 

Either way, Needlenose wasn’t getting a traditional Decepticon ceremony. It was Autobot or nothing at all, but Smokescreen had promised it would be in the old style, with every bit of luxury the camp could afford. He hadn’t outright said the Prime would show up, but he’d hinted enough that Needlenose had begun agreeing to terms.

Optimus, of course, was happy to be called on to officiate. _So happy._ "They want me to be there?" 

"They'll never admit it, but yeah. Needlenose will probably wibble a bit and hide it scowling, and Horri-Bull's complaining nonstop about stupid romantic mush he doesn't give a scrap about, so don't get your hopes up about a thank-you from either of them but especially not him. But yeah. Way I’m looking to set it up, we can make Horri-Bull believe it’s all because Bluestreak’s a traditionalist over interfacing outside of endura. You showing up will just be you hearing about the wedding and dropping in, you being a hopeless romantic sucker for people in love, even Decepticons.” Smokescreen simpered, pretending to a pushover Autobot doing it for True Love and some ironclad chastity laws straight from a temple cloister. “We won't blow Needlenose's cover, he’ll get his wedding, and he'll fork over anything we want. That’s the deal."

"I..."

"I know, I know, you don't care about the information part of it.” He smiled fondly at the tiny vidfeed of his Prime. “You really are a hopeless romantic."

Nothing was denied. "Do you know what kind of ceremony they'd like?"

"According to Horri-Bull, he’d like us to die in a fire in their honor. Needlenose is backing him on that idea, but secretly? The mech wants all the bells and whistles. Pull out your best speech, Optimus. Plan out something appropriately lovey-dovey for their Four Acts."

Optimus didn’t respond, at least not in words. He reacted strongly enough to make up the difference.

Smokescreen rubbed at the base of his chevron. "Oh, Primus, stop looking at me like that. You're so happy you're going to explode, aren't you? I'm gonna be responsible for the death of Optimus Prime from sheer glee over a cute, happy couple getting hitched."

"I'm not quite that bad."

"Optimus."

"Yes?"

"You've got your hands balled under your chin, and you're making a little _'eeeee'_ noise all quiet-like."

"...ah.” The Prime jerked his hands down out of sight. He looked appropriately embarrassed at being caught stamping his feet and jigging in his chair. “I didn't think you could hear me." 

Smokescreen shook his head. "Just show up on time and try to look a little more dignified during the ceremony."

"I'll try, my friend."

 

**[* * * * *]**


	3. Pt. 3: Oh, what an awful wedding. Woe is Needlenose and Horri-Bull.

**Title:** Spare Tires  
 **Warning:** This inhabits a weird area where it’s a humor fic, but people sensitive to misunderstandings causing serious discomfort probably shouldn’t read.  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Autobots. And some Decepticons. Everybody?  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Scenes set in the Third Wheel fic universe without actually being in the story.

 

 **[* * * * *]**  
 **Part Three**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

The prison barracks in the P.O.W. camps weren’t pretty, but they got the job done. Except for the reinforced walls and bars, they looked more like regular grunt bunks than prison cells. It helped cut down on the trapped feeling to keep them in familiar surroundings, the theory went, and anyway, Jazz swore he had a touch of herder in his coding somewhere. Groups of Decepticons triggered a need to go guard them, maybe nip their heels to keep them bunched together. Singled-out Decepticons were more prone to trigger his _other_ deep code instincts. The ones nobody liked to hear details of in the aftermath.

Or at least that’s what he ‘just happened’ to tell Bluestreak in the hearing of a new convoy of prisoners, who then went on to spread the word. The Decepticons quickly decided behaving themselves in the barracks was a better choice than earning time in the solitary cells. Jazz might make the isolated ‘Cons disappear. 

Besides, when the strange, frightening noises clicked outside the barracks at night, it was nice knowing there were people in the bunks around a mech. Witnesses were a good thing. 

So the prison barracks did their job, and what the walls couldn’t do, inhibitor claws, mode locks, and as many weapons pried off the prisoners as physically possible did. That had made the one and only time the Autobots got their hands on Sixshot rather interesting. Optimus Prime insisted on fair and even treatment of all prisoners, even six-changer Circuit-su specialists, but only Sixshot’s grudgingly-given parole had kept the mech out of stasis lockdown the entirety of his short stay in the camp before Megatron negotiated his release. It had still left the Autobots with the problem of how to take the guns off a guy who _turned into_ a gun.

The goods news was that after that, they knew what to do if they ever got a hold of Shockwave or Megatron. They could disarm _anyone_ , now.

Today, thankfully, the question wasn’t how to physically disarm anyone. This was more of a metaphorical disarmament.

*”This is cracked,”* Trailbreaker said over commline as they unlocked the bars. The Decepticon prisoners inside glared at them but kept to their bunks, unwilling to risk charging armed guards, even if those guards were Autobots. Anyway, getting past the guards here just meant Bluestreak would snipe them once they were outside the building. *”Are you sure this is going to work?”*

Why did everyone keep asking him that? *”Trust me a little, here! It’ll work.”* Smokescreen didn’t step past the bars. This wasn’t an inspection. “Horri-Bull. Needlenose,” he barked. “Front and center. A certain Power That Be wants to have a **word** with you.” He put a nasty kind of emphasis on the word, implying things. Things that made the other Decepticons look away from the selected prisoners, relief and pity flashing over their faces. 

Better those two than them, the feeling ran. May the interrogation leave something of the pair to crawl back, but nobody here was going to get their hopes up. Sacrifices had to be made to appease the demon scratching outside the walls, black and white and laughing all over. 

The two Decepticons obeyed, but reluctantly. In Horri-Bull’s case, he hunched forward in a way that had both Autobots clapping a hand on their sidearms in warning. Needlenose elbowed him, and he subsided. “You won’t get anything from us,” Horri-Bull muttered.

“Yeah,” Needlenose chimed in. 

Smokescreen carefully didn’t smile. Expression hard, he drew his sidearm. “You know the drill. Turn.” The Decepticons shared a glance before sullenly spinning around to put their backs to the Autobots. Smokescreen kept his gun trained on them as Trailbreaker moved in with stasis cuffs. 

Horri-Bull growled angrily as the Autobot jerked his wrists up behind his back to cuff. Needlenose just glared. He seemed the better behaved of the two, more level-headed at least, but that wasn’t saying much. Horri-Bull had a flash-point temper. Smokescreen kept his gun out as Trailbreaker spun the two prisoners around and pushed them out, locking the bars behind them. 

The rest of the prisoners didn’t watch them go. 

They all relaxed as soon as they were out of the building, but not by much. The two ‘Cons never forgot they were prisoners, and the two ‘Bots knew to never let their guard down. It was still nice to drop the act. Frightening people wasn’t Smokescreen’s idea of a good time.

“Hope you two are ready,” he said lightly as he took Needlenose’s elbow to guide him away, “because when next you meet…” He waggled an optic ridge suggestively.

“Meh, it’s just a ceremony,” Horri-Bull sneered. “It’s a formality, and anyway, it’s scrap. This’s all scrap. You Autobots and your niceness. You’re just putting on a show for your propaganda, and it’s not even **legal**. I don’t recognize the authority of that little rust smear of a warden! And if you hurt him,” he said, setting his heels against Trailbreaker’s pull on his arm as he looked back over his shoulder toward where his lover was being led away, “I’ll kill you all.” 

Horri-Bull threatened people. A lot. Smokescreen had yet to go anywhere near him or his barrack without a threat being spat through the bars at him. This threat, however, came out low and deadly serious.

The Praxian sighed. “Your fiancee has the worst set of cold feet this side of Polyhex,” he told Needlenose, and Horri-Bull made an enraged sound -- a more normal one, anyway -- as Trailbreaker pulled him away. Needlenose kept his optics on him until he was out of sight. Smokescreen let him, then gestured into the other washrack. “Shall we?”

It wasn’t as though conditions in the P.O.W. camp were bad, but the prisoners didn’t often get washrack time. Too many fights, and groups got stupid when they thought they could rush the guards in a mob. Smokescreen could handle one unarmed prisoner let loose to freshen up, however, so Needlenose scrubbed while he leaned against the door in casual guard. 

“He’s right,” the Decepticon said suddenly, without stopping. “It’s just a formality. It won’t even change our official files.”

“It’ll get written into your files with us, if that makes a difference,” Smokescreen said. “And you’ll get two days in the solitary cells for a honeymoon. That’s gotta be worth something.” 

“Oh, like that’s so great.” But it was better than nothing, definitely more than they’d get among the Decepticons, who didn’t do frilly weddings. 

According to what Smokescreen had learned, endura ceremonies were closer to promotions than celebrations over in the other faction. Nice, but deliberately not special, he assumed to keep anyone from copping an attitude. A conjunx wedding registered among the ranks at the same level as two mechs being awarded a medal for extraordinary service, only without everyone in a base obliged to applaud. Smokescreen had initially thought that sounded like a lousy party, but Needlenose had given him a funny look and asked if he thought many Decepticons actually _wanted_ other ‘Cons to attend their wedding. 

Good point. 

A fake Autobot marriage ‘forced’ on Needlenose and Horri-Bull would give Needlenose the ceremony he wanted, if not the legal status. It would still be recognized unofficially among other Decepticons, especially since Smokescreen had made a point of arranging _all_ the barracks would have a small treat buffet set up to make sure everyone knew there was a wedding reception being celebrated. By the time Needlenose and Horri-Bull got out of solitary, honeymoon over, they’d have the makings of a great story to loudly complain about to the other prisoners, and word would spread. Everyone over in the Decepticons would know about their unhappy fate before too long. 

Yeah, those two? The worst luck, those guys. They were in a P.O.W. camp together, and one of the guards noticed them fragging regularly. The next thing they knew, they were hauled up before the camp warden in some disgusting fru-fru wedding ceremony. Totally forced. They didn’t have a choice. They had to get married. At gun point. 

With music. “Primus,” Needlenose whispered when Smokescreen recuffed him for the final walk to the exercise yard. “Primus, is that the wedding flight?” His wings twitched in longing, yearning for open air. “I wanted to fly to our wedding.”

“You’ll have to settle for walking. Can’t have you taking off,” Smokescreen said, patting him on the back, “but we thought it was appropriate. We even got a couple of singers.” Jazz and Mirage, although he wouldn’t mention that. Hopefully Needlenose wouldn’t freak out having Special Ops breathing down his neck the entire ceremony like a reminder of just what kind of bargain he’d struck to have this wedding.

“It’s perfect,” Needlenose said in a voice so quiet Smokescreen didn’t think he was supposed to hear. “It’s wonderful.” 

Stopping to filch some of Sunstreaker’s polish had made them late, but the angry, worried engine growls from Horri-Bull cut off completely the second he looked down the aisle and saw who had arrived. Smokescreen smiled. Being late was wholly worth the helpless look that turned Horri-Bull’s optics soft and warm. It was there only a second, but Needlenose positively glowed at the sight of it. 

Polished to shining, he swept down the aisle with Smokescreen at his elbow as escort and guard. When he stopped beside Horri-Bull, both Decepticons wore sullen expressions again. Smokescreen nodded to the musicians, and the wedding flight became to an old hymn of blessing. Mirage and Jazz launched into song. It didn’t escape anyone’s attention that Needlenose and Horri-Bull shuffled closer to one another during the duet.

Bluestreak stepped up into the magistrate’s position, absolutely beaming happiness, and he nodded to Smokescreen. Smokescreen reset his vocalizer and drew his gun to catch the Decepticons’ attention, since they seemed absorbed in each other. “Face each other, please,” Bluestreak said. Horri-Bull hunched over again, but Smokescreen tapped the mech’s arm pointedly. The two prisoners turned to face each other, and Bluestreak nodded to Trailbreaker and Hound, who stepped up behind the ‘Cons to unlock one wrist each. “Hands in front of yourselves, now.”

Puzzled, the two obeyed. Trailbreaker and Hound promptly snapped the free cuff dangling off each mech’s wrist onto the other mech’s uncuffed wrist, chaining them together. Needlenose and Horri-Bull stared at the cuffs in surprise, then looked up into each other’s optics. In Needlenose’s case, he looked quite a bit further up. Facing each other really served to emphasize how much bigger Horri-Bull was than him.

“Are we ready to begin?” Bluestreak asked brightly. Without looking away from each other, the two Decepticons nodded. They didn’t even grumble a protest.

*”You’re right. This is going to work,”* Trailbreaker said, sounding amazed. *”They’re holding hands!”*

*”Clearly, they are two prisoners cuffed together. I see no hand-holding,”* Smokescreen corrected him dryly. *”Hand-holding is for Autobots.”*

*”I can read hand,”* Mirage said just as dryly, *”and holding hands isn’t the only Autobot thing they’re up to right now. They’re goo for each other. This will most definitely work.”*

*”And you ain’t seen nothing yet,”* Smokescreen said. The other Autobots looked at him strangely, but he had already turned to look down the aisle.

“Excuse me,” a deep baritone voice interrupted Bluestreak’s recitation of the rites, “if I might offer, I believe I can legally officiate a Decepticon ceremony?”

*”Perfect timing, Prime,”* Smokescreen said. 

Needlenose looked like he might explode from sheer joy. Horri-Bull looked like he had swallowed something noxious. Both of them were holding hands as if their lives depended on it, and Mirage smiled at whatever they said in the privacy of hand-to-hand contact. 

**[* * * * *]**


	4. Pt. 4: The outpost tug-o-war game

**Title:** Spare Tires  
 **Warning:** This inhabits a weird area where it’s a humor fic, but people sensitive to misunderstandings causing serious discomfort probably shouldn’t read.  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Autobots. And some Decepticons. Everybody?  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Scenes set in the Third Wheel fic universe without actually being in the story.

 

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part Four**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

There was something down-to-Cybertron about Optimus Prime. People could sense it. He was powerful, he was gracious, he was an inspiration, and he cussed like a dockworker while getting tossed around the training rink by Ironhide, just like every other soldier during combat practice. It was that kind of quirk, the little in-between moments, that brought the Autobot leader down from legend and made him accessible. 

Hitching himself to a cargoload was one of those things. The commander of their entire faction was willing to haul stuff around like any grunt in the ranks, pitching in to help a caravan along. It was nice. It was refreshing.

It was an opportunity to be a bunch of goofballs. 

Trailbreaker had the towline hooked to the Prime's trailer hitch and was running it back to the cargo pod when Jazz got that look on his face. It was the look Prowl thought he knew, but no. No, this was the real deal. Jazz, unofficial morale officer, was on the job.

"Hey, Trailbreaker," he said as he sauntered up, "you're a strong 'bot, right?"

Trailbreaker paused, on his hands and knees in the courtyard as he felt under the pod for a support strut solid enough to attach a towline hook to. "Uh, yeah? I guess so. Why?"

Jazz grabbed the towline, shuffling his feet as he took up the tension, and flashed a megawatt grin. "Gimme a hand."

Looking at the hook he held, then up at the black-and-white, Trailbreaker frowned, puzzled. "What'm I helping you with?"

"Well, y'said you're strong. I'm strong, too." Small but sturdy had to count for something. Jazz leaned back and gave an experimental tug. "Two of us tough guys? Bet we can pull a Prime." He set his feet and gave a harder yank.

A lightweight speedster on the short side of the height chart didn’t stand a chance against someone the size and mass of Optimus Prime. Partway across the courtyard, their esteemed leader didn’t so much as budge, but he felt the tug. A side mirror swiveled slightly to look for the cause of the pull. 

Trailbreaker stood up slowly, looking back and forth from officer to officer. The massive eighteen-wheeler held the faintest aura of polite bafflement. Jazz just grinned like he'd found the greatest toy in the world, leaning back against the towline in an absurd attempt to shift the relatively huge Prime.

Just as slowly as he'd stood up, Trailbreaker took a better grip on the hook. "We're going to have to move to the side," he said in a low voice to Jazz, "or we'll just run into this thing." He knocked his shoulder against the cargo pod.

"On three?"

"Are you crazy?" Trailbreaker said under his breath as he wound the line around his fist. "I must be crazy. We’re both certifiable. We shouldn't be doing this."

"Prob'bly not." Which didn't stop Jazz's grin from widening further. "Ready?"

"I need a drink."

"One."

"Make it a double." Trailbreaker braced himself.

"Two." 

Optimus Prime had another side mirror turned to watch them.

"Three!" The two Autobots threw themselves to the side to clear the pod, heaving back at the same moment to snap the towline taut. "Woo!"

Everyone looked over in surprise at the excited whoop. Trailbreaker and Jazz hauled back on the towline, both of them grinning even if Trailbreaker looked like he couldn't believe what he was doing. Optimus Prime rocked on his wheels, just barely. They set their heels and tried again, and all his side mirrors swiveled, front wheels shifting the slightest bit as if he were asking what they thought they were doing back there. He seemed amused by their efforts, if anything. What did they think they could do, pull him around?

His amusement deepened as a predictably excited yell came from the other side of the courtyard. "Aw, yeah!” Bright red rocketed across the courtyard, and Sideswipe hit the towline between Jazz and Trailbreaker hard enough to rock the Prime noticeably. He latched on, adding his considerable strength to the pull. “C’mon, we can do it!”

“1-2-3, pull!” Jazz directed, and the three of them pulled with all sorts of enthusiasm and minimal effect. “Again! 1-2-3, pull!”

After a few repetitions, their bemused Prime evidently decided to teach them a lesson. Shifting to first gear, he pulled ahead just enough to topple the three Autobots trying to move him the opposite direction. Then he downshifted back into neutral and sat there looking amused. Amused and smug.

That just wouldn’t do. Complaining mightily, Sideswipe and Jazz righted themselves while Trailbreaker turned to put the towline over his shoulder, leaning forward in a true pull. The other two quickly followed his example, and they started rocking their leader back and forth on his wheels again. They weren’t getting him anywhere, but they sure seemed like they were enjoying themselves.

Sunstreaker meandered over, looked at them, and cast a glance at the ground to ask for Primus to save him from the idiots he worked with. Exasperated, he strode closer to the midpoint of the towline, grabbed a hold, and yanked so hard he grunted. Prime’s engine revved in surprise at the strength, but Sunstreaker wasn’t a powerhouse on the frontline for nothing. 

Prime jolted on his wheels this time. His weight immediately rocked him back into place, but suddenly everyone was smiling. The immobile object could indeed be moved! Ha!

“Right.” Cliffjumper jogged over as though he’d just been waiting for a signal. “You’ve all fried your circuits.”

Jazz tipped all his weight against the towline, grinning at Cliffjumper while hanging sideways. “Let’s do this!” The line jerked as Optimus Prime shifted into gear again, and the black-and-white scrambled, yowling dismay. “No no nooooo, stop that, y’ can’t do that!”

Oh, he certainly could. The Prime slooooooooowly dragged the five Autobots forward while they struggled and fought, hauling against the towline as hard as possible, feet digging furrows in the ground. It was obvious he could accelerate without a problem if he wanted, but it was almost teasing how he chugged along at glacial speed, letting them swear in frustration as they lost the battle to his relentless strength.

But not the war. “C’mon, help us!” Jazz called to the crowd of observers, and Smokescreen laughed out loud at the good-humored sparkle in that blue visor. “We can take ‘im!”

Everyone looked at everyone else. The Prime revved his engine in challenge. The air around Sunstreaker threatened to turn blue from the language he was using. Cliffjumper stumbled as the Prime pulled him out of his stance, and he had to scramble to brace his heels again.

Why not?

Smokescreen wasn’t the first one to drop what he was doing and head over, but he was part of the first wave. Wheeljack ducked under the towline ahead of him, turning to grab the line just in front of his hands. They exchanged urchin grins as they pulled. Hound shouldered in behind Smokescreen, reaching under his doors to get to the line. A minibot squirmed between them, reaching up to get a grip when he reached the center of the two lines of soldiers braced on either side of the towline. 

“Alright!” Jazz hollered behind the sudden churning group of people around the line. “On three! One!”

“Two!” the group bellowed.

“Three!” 

They heaved.

And Optimus Prime pulled forward.

Autobots tripped and stumbled and fell about, the front ranks kissing ground as the towline jerked them forward too fast to catch their balance. People swore. More of them laughed. Smokescreen yelped as Hound fell facefirst between his doors, and Wheeljack took one hand off the towline to wave in a circle in the air as he skidded along, perfectly balanced. “Yeehaw!”

The eighteen-wheeler came to a halt again, engine idling. Winner and still champion: Optimus Prime.

Sunstreaker managed to push off of someone’s back and stay upright, and he pointed a finger, too enraged to manage words anymore. Jazz hung off the line, swung back to his feet, and came up shaking his fist. The mechs in disarray all around them joined in the indignant, joyous grumbling of sore losers. Their collective pride was smarting.

“Aw, really!” 

“ **Bang** we need better **crash** leverage.”

“What if we transformed?”

“But then we can’t hold onto the line.”

“Pfft, says you. One mech transforms, the other uses him as a base…”

“Ohh, I see.”

“Someone gimme a push!”

Smokescreen ended up with his feet set against Hound’s front bumper, the towline tucked against his side and both hands holding on, all of his weight leaned back against it. On the other side of the line, Wheeljack was in much the situation, only he stood on a small tank eagerly rumbling under him. Only Wheeljack could be that comfortable straddling Warpath’s turret. 

Optimus Prime continued to idle at the other end of the towline, side mirrors twitching in contained laughter. At some point, Mirage had appeared standing on his trailer pad, and the blue noblemech regarded the organized jumble of Autobots with a mild sort of contempt. This, his expression said, was exactly the kind of madness he’d come to expect of the peasantry. 

“Get over here and help!” Sideswipe yelled at him.

Mirage sniffed haughtily. Ugh, commoners. Why on Cybertron would he go join the losing side? “I’m quite comfortable watching you make fools of yourselves from a distance, thank you.”

“Who are you, Red Alert? Pssht. Guess you don’t mind if I just climb aaaaaaaall over Cliffjumper, then,” Sideswipe said, and everyone stopped what they were doing to look back, because the way he said that sounded absolutely indecent. With the group as close together as they were, nobody could actually see what the red frontliner was doing, no matter how they craned their necks. “Hey, he’s a sturdy little tincan!”

“Don’t call me that!” Cliffjumper said from somewhere out of sight. 

Next thing anyone knew, Mirage was walking down the towline like it was a tightrope, all that grace and beauty turned into something distinctly predatory. “Very well,” he huffed. Autobots exchanged impressed looks as he stepped with delicate precision between their hands, over their shoulders, and down the line without pause. “Get your bumbling self off him. Barbarian.” 

Someone jogged the line experimentally, and he stopped to glare. “Stop that.” More jogging, along with mischievous grins, and he pivoted with unerring, unnerving balance and bent almost double to give them a closer look at how unamused he was. Optics dead serious, he purred, “I know where you recharge,” in the silky tone of someone who’d have no problem exploiting that fact for revenge.

The towline remained still after that.

“Get ready!” Ironhide shouted from somewhere near the end, and when had he joined this ridiculous game? Didn’t matter. Everyone set their feet against their impromptu partner, and a dozen engines growled in anticipation. “Get set!”

“ **Go!** ” everyone yelled.

Optimus Prime jolted backward, rolling with the pull as a dozen engines roared and another dozen Autobots clamped their hands and arms around the line, dragging him with weight and power. Cheering, they yelled encouragement to each other and heaved again.

That’s when he downshifted into first gear. 

Even with his wheels locked, they managed to drag him along. It was harder, but they could do it. “Pull!” Ironhide shouted. “Fer pride and Prime, pull!”

“We got this!” Jazz added at the top of his vocalizer. That was a considerable volume. It still didn’t cover the deep bass rumble of Optimus Prime’s heavy-duty engine starting to accelerate. “C’mon, guys, we got thiiwhooooooaaaa **aaaaaaaaaaaaa!** ” 

Everyone yelling wasn’t enough to cover the sound of their leader steadily towing the whole lot of them across the courtyard, a dozen sets of tires and treads spinning futilely against the pull and partners yelping as they were physically yanked off their perches. Those who didn’t let go in time were dragged kicking and screaming off their partners, laughing too hard to let go as they skidded across the ground in the Prime’s wake. 

“We giiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive!” Jazz wailed from the tangle of people rolling about on the end of the towline. 

Optimus Prime hauled them a little further before finally relenting. “Do you surrender, Autobots?” he asked, side mirrors set in over-the-top arrogance.

Jazz had to worm up through the people piled on top of him in order to sit up. “Surrender? Surrender?! Autobots never surrender!” 

The towline tugged, dragging the group just a tad further. Various yips and startled _eep!_ exclamations covered whatever protest Jazz might have made, and the small black-and-white ended up buried somewhere near the bottom. 

The Prime revved mocking threat at his challenger. “I repeat: do you surrender, Autobots?”

A tiny white flag meekly emerged from the pile to wave surrender.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	5. Pt. 5: Jazz and the Closet

**Title:** Spare Tires  
**Warning:** This inhabits a weird area where it’s a humor fic, but people sensitive to misunderstandings causing serious discomfort probably shouldn’t read.  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Continuity:** G1  
**Characters:** Autobots. And some Decepticons. Everybody?  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** Scenes set in the Third Wheel fic universe without actually being in the story. _Voter incentive ficlet for Illinois and Florida voters!_

 

 **[* * * * *]**  
**Part Five (set between Pt. 14 and 15 of Third Wheel)**  
**[* * * * *]**

 

This was new. Relatively new, anyway. Rerun with different characters.

"Shoulda seen this comin'," Jazz said, contemplating the closet he'd been shoved into. It was even the same closet. Barrels of solvent, a few brooms, a lot of ragged leftover scrubbies and mops, not a single thing that exploded or corroded in sight. He’d vetted the place himself, once upon a panicked scheme.

Speaking of which. "Smokescreen? You got a reason for kickin’ me in here?"

Things thumped around outside the closet. Busy mech, Smokescreen. Too busy locking him in to reply, apparently. 

Sighing, Jazz leaned against the inside of the closed door. He could imagine how many locks were being put on the door right now. "Look, if this's about the time I shut you in here, I said I was sorry." Not very sorry, since he'd gotten his way in the end. Sorry purely out of self-preservation. Smokescreen got this _look_ in his optics, the kind a gambler recognized in the player across the table late at night when there wasn't anything left to lose. A _Winner Take All_ mentality crossed with an intense sense of _Frag It All_. Mechs either got run over or go out of the way of a look like that.

It'd become something of an outpost in-joke to take off running whenever Smokescreen got that particular look. It wasn't that he was any more intimidating than anyone else, really. It simply that they all had a weakness for the Praxian thing, and it came out in spades when Smokescreen lost his slag. His doors went up, his arms went flat down his sides, hands tight in fists, and he was just so _colorful_ , like a warning sign on a bottle of poison, all look but don’t touch and definitely, definitely don’t lick no matter how tempting. And that bumper was right there, that big, beautiful bumper. His ventilation system cycled through his torso in hard, short breaths, making his whole chest _bob_ in an immensely distracting heave up and down, up and down -- and nobody had quite gotten around to telling Smokescreen his hazard lights went off every time he got his back up, flashing in a hypnotic _tick-tick-tick_. It was sort of how Prowl's emergency lights went off when he lost his temper or wanted to intimidate someone, and it was just -- they were just so --

Nnnnnnngh. Jazz liked. Jazz liked a great deal. 

Jazz blinked back to himself, flailing as he jerked out of a vivid daydream of Prowl scolding him. More than scolding him. Putting him over his knee was a step up from a reprimand, right?

What? Where was he? Oh. Closet. Locked in by angry Praxian. 

Mmmm, angry Praxian.

"No, bad Jazz," he mumbled to himself. “Focus!”

Shaking his head, he banished all thoughts of angry, absolutely luscious frametypes. Deliciously stern angry Prowls marched about behind his visor, perpetually torqued at him and looking mighty fine while being so. Black, white, red, and ever-so-capable all over. Primus frag him sideways if the mech hadn't been in fine form today, bending over the makeshift table up in the warroom as he shuffled reports from Ironhide and Jazz into some semblance of a plan. It would be drafted into a proposed mission by next shift, brought out for Jazz and Ironhide to look over and argue with him about. That was the stage that left Jazz quivering for hours, but that wasn’t a dismissal of that organization stage. Prowl’s mind connected dots even Jazz couldn’t see, and it was as exciting to watch as anything Jazz could think of in the bunk. Well, almost. Jazz could think of a lot of exciting things.

In any case, Jazz could watch Prowl plot missions forever. Watch and fantasize and melt a little inside every time he was asked some devastatingly intelligent question about information from one of his operatives. Watching a master at work was _such_ a turn-on.

Jazz gazed off into space vacantly, lips curving into a delighted smile as his mind went through a slow-motion play-by-play of the last duty shift. The days Prowl came out of the outpost for mission control were the best days. 

Meanwhile, the door he leaned back against heated slowly. If he'd been listening, he'd have heard the distinctive rushing roar of someone welding. However, he wasn't listening. His thoughts were wrapped up in wishful dreams of other uses for the repurposed messhall table in the warroom. Some of those dreams peeled him down to the core and tormented him with fantasies.

Twenty minutes later, he balanced on the tips of his feet, knees popped and thighs shaking as the fantasies drove him to the inevitable conclusion. He swallowed a moan. Metal creaked slightly, dented by his fingertips. Cables trembled as they drew taut. Anyone in the closet with him would have given him a knowing look for the ionized scent of charged air pouring out of his wide-open vents, and he panted as he writhed, doors scraping long scratches on the closet door. The back of his head hurt from pressing hard against it. Energon dribbled down his chin from where he bit into his lower lip to muffle the little sounds Prowl pulled out of him. 

In his mind, at least. Mental Prowl could make him sit up and whimper for more any day. 

Yeah. That had been a good one.

...what had he been doing? Thinking about? He'd been going somewhere, hadn't he? Visor bleary, Jazz looked around the closet as it seeing it for the first time. Why was he in here? 

He'd just gotten off-duty after spending an entire glorious shift trading ideas with Prowl, Tachead extraordinaire, discussing the next mission while Prowl worked that wonderful, wonderful magic he did, turning information into action. Smokescreen had snagged Jazz by the arm before he could ask Prowl about maybe grabbing a cube together, and that’s how they’d ended up walking down the hall. Jazz had been complaining about the interruption, and Smokescreen had been telling him he didn't stand a chance anyway, and then suddenly Jazz had found himself shoved into the closet.

Which was kind of fortunate, considering where Jazz's thoughts had been headed, but hey. Belated indignation here. He hadn’t needed an assist. He wasn’t _that_ desperate for ‘alone time’ after working with Prowl.

Oh, Primus, please don’t let it be that obvious. He made a note to discreetly ask his operatives about it once he got out of here. 

But that required getting out of here. Jazz thumped his elbow back against the door. "Lemme out."

"No," a muffled voice said from the other side.

Who on Cybertron..? "Trailbreaker?" He turned to put his audio against the door to hear better. "What're you doin' out there?"

"Keeping you in."

That was blunt. "Why?"

"Reasons."

Ooo, intriguing. "Trailbreaker, y'know I'm gonna find out. And get out. Y'can't keep me locked up." Forgive him if he sounded a tad confident there. Not putting down Trailbreaker's forcefield or anything, but Jazz was an escape artist.

"I have six cubes of energon and orders to keep you contained," Trailbreaker said in his Serious Voice. As opposed to his Drunk Voice. He only had about two facets of personality in any given situation. They were big facets, full of interesting things like magnetic wheels and a tendency to feel guilty about his fuel requirements, but for Jazz's purposes, he'd been hoping for the Drunk Voice.

The Serious Voice meant this was practically a mission. "Are people conspirin' out there?" Jazz asked, half joking and half suspicious. The last time anyone had tried to lock him in somewhere, it'd been his office, and Ironhide had sanctioned that. It'd been either escape or do all the filework piled on his desk. Jazz had chosen escape.

"We're keeping you out of the way. It's for your own good," Trailbreaker warned, but that only woke the black-and-white’s curiosity.

"I'm an officer, y'know."

"You're off-duty."

"Don't matter. Still an officer."

"Higher rank trumps you."

Ouch. That meant Ironhide's blessing was upon this. Or -- nah. Prowl wouldn't put him into time-out in a closet. It was more Smokescreen's style. Smokescreen had a vendetta. Jazz should probably feel bad about that, but fraggit, it'd been for a good cause.

Hmm. So Smokescreen wanted him out of the way, and Ironhide had okayed the plan. Wait, no, it was possible there was a medical angle to this Jazz wasn't seeing. Ambulon didn't outright beat Special Operations over the head with it, but under certain circumstances, the Medical Division could override most orders. They just tended to keep that veto on the down-low. Any officer who'd been around long enough learned the one, universal rule of combat units: don't cross the medics.

The question was, had Ambulon or Ironhide been the one to issue Trailbreaker the extra fuel for this little endeavor?

He let his voice drop into a dangerous purr, the kind of seductive tone that stroked down a mech's back looking for the best place to stick a knife in. "Traaaaailbreaker?"

A muted swallow. "Yeah?"

"You're one-a mine." Classified as an auxiliary SpecOps mech like Hound and Smokescreen, but still one of Jazz's mechs. Time for a little reminder, here, delicate as a razor-thin blade. "You let me out, or I make your life all kinds of fun, natch?" Okay, more of a blunt object than anything delicate.

"I'm under orders," Trailbreaker protested weakly. "I -- I -- I'm gonna shut off my audios now. You can call for help if you want."

"Trailbreaker!" Jazz slapped his hand on the door, but nothing happened. Clever, clever forcefield mech. Now he'd have to get creative. "Hi, yes, I'd like to use a lifeline," he said to himself as he dialed up the first frequency.

*"Yes?"*

"Yo, Mirage. Why'm I in a closet?" Jazz listened with much interest to the empty static on the other end of the commline. Informative, if not very helpful. Alright, cross Mirage off the list of people ready to help him, and on to Lifeline #2.

Ten minutes later, Jazz was both fascinated and frustrated. He'd run through his entire list of trusted people in the outpost, as well as the secondary list of people he'd smile at in the halls but kept a close watch over from the shadows. He’d found out a fat lot of nothing about what was going on outside the closet, and a whole pile of zilch on why he’d been welded in here. 

There was a conspiracy, that was for certain. Red Alert had picked up the line just to laugh at him and hang up again. Ironhide had told him to get out himself if he wanted out so bad. Ambulon had done the bare minimum of bothering to ask if it was an emergency before hanging up. Blaster hadn't even picked up the line yet.

"I hate your hold music," Jazz sourly told his arm transmitter. The microphone continued to doot overly cheery canned tunes at him. "How can a guy with a communication specialty have such bad taste in music? Ugh." It was psychological warfare, the kind that would make him absently start singing along the second his guard was down. Blaster was trying to get him to hang up in disgust. Ha. Jazz would show him. He'd stay on the line forever.

Drumming his fingers on the wall, Jazz squinted at the door. So much for a rescue, or even an explanation. He was on his own. Picking the lock wouldn't be a problem, but that wouldn't do anything about the forcefield blocking the doorway. Trailbreaker had enough control to project a forcefield into the lock itself, if he thought about it. Jazz knew. He’d been the one to train him on it. It was a useful skill right up until it was turned against him like this.

Maybe he should be thinking about this less as a weird happenstance and more as a training exercise. Hmmm. Trapped in an enemy…prison cell, not storage closet, it just didn’t have the same dramatic effect to be locked in a closet. Although it had happened once or twice, he had to admit. Getting stuck in odd locations was a peril of the job.

He looked toward the other end of the room. No help there. All he had to work with was a teeny-tiny ventilation shaft used to keep air circulating through the base. It was barely big enough to get his arm through. His head cocked to the side as he eyed the vent grate. He never was one to back down from a challenge.

Absently humming along with the hold music, Jazz cracked his knuckle joints and pushed off the wall. Time to get to work.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	6. Pt. 6: Jazz takes a chill pill

**Title:** Spare Tires  
 **Warning:** This inhabits a weird area where it’s a humor fic, but people sensitive to misunderstandings causing serious discomfort probably shouldn’t read.  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Autobots. And some Decepticons. Everybody?  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Scenes set in the Third Wheel fic universe without actually being in the story. Fits in between Pt. 14 and 15 of Third Wheel, and just after the last chapter here.

 

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part Six**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

Smokescreen had involved exactly four mechs from the start: Ironhide, Red Alert, Trailbreaker, and himself. He’d made the case that Prowl had a right to feel comfortable in his offtime, and anyway, it’d be a treat for the whole outpost to surprise them with Prowl’s presence. The chance to play tactical games against the Tachead would be fun! A challenge! An opportunity Smokescreen didn’t want Jazz screwing up just by being himself!

Which had been a convincing argument in and of itself, given Jazz’s normal behavior around Prowl. Ironhide usually let things among equal ranks sort themselves out, but he wasn’t totally oblivious to the situation. He probably figured it’d do both officers good; Prowl could socialize with the outpost off-duty and Jazz could practice his escape arts. 

His approval of the plan got Trailbreaker the extra energon. Once Smokescreen welded the door shut, a memo went out to the outpost as a whole, tagging everyone off-duty with a notice for the game in the side hall in twenty minutes, sign-ups starting immediately, and Trailbreaker set up to babysit the closet amidst a stampede of people on their way to fight over who got to play. Not surprising in the least, reading the memo was enough to gain everyone’s cooperation with the plan. No help was to be found for poor, locked-up Jazz.

But, oh, was there a price to be paid for that outpost-wide desertion later.

Such whining Outpost 49-B6-4 had never heard.

“He **what?!** You -- he what? You did -- I. Why -- but I -- why didn’t you -- I -- you -- how could you -- I -- you -- I hate you! I hate you so much! Fragging **Pit** I hate every last one-a ya!“ Jazz spun around and started pointing. “I hate you, and **you** ,” Mirage leaned back, affronted, “yeah you! And you and you and you and I hate your table, and I **especially** hate you!” Smokescreen continued to sip his ration, unaffected. Jazz sputtered and waved his hands, so angry he could only stamp his feet. “Shove that cube up your trunk, ya junk-muncher! Twist it sideways while you’re at it! Primus alive an’ kickin’, I hate you so much I -- I -- ” Clenching his fists, he drew himself up, doors shaking so hard he vibrated.

And then he collapsed over the table, all but prostrate before the Praxian. His engine stalled out in a pathetic hiccup. “Tell me everything. Don’t spare me th’ details.”

Interested optics watched the show from all over the messhall. “I didn’t know his voice could go that high,” Hound whispered to Trailbreaker.

“He shrieked at me when I blocked the air duct. Reeeeeeally painful to hear. He put his speakers behind it.” Trailbreaker pretended to wince in remembered pain, and not just at the volume. He’d learned four new words guaranteed to offend someone. 

Hound looked at him sidelong. “He got into the air duct?”

“Yeah, I’m still trying to figure out how, too.”

They pondered the intrinsic impossibility of fitting someone Jazz’s size into the closet’s air vent for a while.

“Jazz,” Hound decided at last. Trailbreaker looked askance at him, and he shrugged, spreading his hands. “That’s all I’ve got. It’s Jazz. That’s the whole explanation, right there.”

Fair enough. Trailbreaker nodded. “Jazz.”

“Exactly.”

They went back to watching Mirage, Smokescreen, and Wheeljack take turns winding the Head of Special Operations into a writhing knot of need. Jazz wailed like a tormented spark. Tales of Prowl smiling and congratulating his opponents had Jazz sobbing despair and desire into the table. Someone offered a grainy copy of the security camera footage. The black-and-white made little blubbering noises of sad want. 

Many looks were exchanged as the people present to witness his pitiful display unanimously agreed that it had been a brilliant idea to lock him in that closet. Subjecting Prowl to Jazz on a good day tested Prowl’s patience. They would have had to put him on a leash to keep him down during the game, and explaining that to Prowl would have just been awkward.

So the first time Smokescreen put Jazz in time-out, he succeeded through subterfuge. Well done, Smokescreen. The Special Operations Division gave him a nod of respect for that. 

The second time he put Jazz in the closet, it was via official means. Jazz was on the lookout for trickery, after all. He wasn’t on the lookout for a double-shift. 

“Say what now?” Smokescreen heard him mutter from across the courtyard as the duty schedule updated, and then a wide blue visor whipped up to stare in betrayed disbelief at him. “Aw, y’didn’t.”

Smokescreen smirked. 

“Y’did.” Jazz glanced around like he was wondering if he could make a run for it, but lo and behold, shiny doom descended upon him. Bright red and golden yellow suddenly sandwiched him in an totally non-erotic way. Jazz looked smaller than usual between Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, and he grimaced as he looked up at them. “Aw, c’mon, that ain’t **fair**.”

His legs kicked air futilely as they physically picked him up by the upper arms. “Ironhide ordered us to escort you to your assigned station,” Sunstreaker informed him.

“It’s a closet!”

“A closet now stocked with the outpost’s finest selection of filework.” Sideswipe grinned broadly, smoothing the flat of his hand across the sky to clear Jazz’s imagination for the wonders in store and storage for him. “Just picture all that filing you’ve been putting off doing! We shall escort you to your Closet of Concentration, kind sir, and soon all that work will be done.”

“Suck exhaust an’ die!”

Both frontliners froze, and any sympathy Jazz might have had in the courtyard disappeared. Even as a joke, wishing death on a fellow Autobot was bad luck. It was Not Done in a big way. Optics narrowed. The sentries pointedly turned their backs. Even Perceptor huffed. 

Ooo, yeah, public opinion had dried up.

Jazz knew he’d gone too far as soon as he said it. Wincing, he dropped his voice to a contrite murmur. “Frag, that was outta line. Sorry, guys. No excuse.”

Without a word, the twins turned in perfect coordination to carry him into the outpost. He hung from their grasp looking apologetic.

Not that he didn’t try to escape the moment they were inside, of course. But they were expecting it, and he didn’t pull out any weaponry while squirming loose. They let go of his arms, caught him by the ankles, and smoothly resumed walking with barely a pause. He dug his fingers into the floor as they dragged him along. “Lemme goooo, I promise I’ll be good! I’ll stand in the back an’ keep my mouth shut an’ everything!”

“Yeah, no. Not believing that. You kinda can’t, Jazz.”

“You have no self control around him. No offense.”

“None taken,” Jazz said cheerfully enough, considering the fact that his fingers were grooving furrows through the floor. “But why can’t I try? Everyone else gets a shot!” That was the part that smarted worse than being kept away from the game itself. Everyone off-duty was given the chance to ogle Prowl having a good time. Why couldn’t he join the crowd? All he wanted was to watch Prowl play!

Admittedly, the likelihood of him being able to stop at watching was slim to none. He really did have no self-control when it came to Prowl.

“You can’t,” Sideswipe grunted, turning with his brother to yank on Jazz’s legs as the saboteur hooked the edge of a floor sheet, “because you’ll scare him away. We like him. We want him to come back.” 

“I’m not that bad!” 

_Skreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek!_ Metal bent, gradually peeling up from the floor. Jazz scrabbled for another grip.

Sunstreaker handed Jazz’s foot to Sideswipe, letting the red mech handle twice the desperate kicking while he walked back to crouch down by Jazz’s hands. He began to pick fingers free one by one. “You’re terrible,” he told the black-and-white matter-of-factly as he worked. 

“Am not.” Jazz clamped down harder, scowling. “And y’ can’t tell me Hound’s any better. I’ve seen him slobber over Smokescreen’s doors.”

“Smokescreen’s playing censor. He lectures people when they get too bad.” Sideswipe grunted, pinning Jazz’s feet under his arms so the wiggly mech couldn’t kick him anymore. “He booted me out to cool down, last time.” Anyone whose fans hit a certain pitch was banned from the room until they, ahem, took care of the problem.

“He did?” Jazz blinked over his shoulder. Sunstreaker pried his last finger up, and fat, rounded metal curls shaved from the floor as Sideswipe heaved, dragging the smaller mech down the hall. “Nooooooooo I don’t wanna gooooooo!” He knew better than to call for help this time, since it seemed to be a huge outpost conspiracy, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t fuss. “No no no no no! You can’t make me!” Against all proof that they could, although the three of them knew that he hadn’t escaped because he was technically reporting -- under duress -- for duty. It made Jazz feel better to struggle, okay?

Loudly. “Nooooo no no no why can’t I at least get locked in my office? I got an office! It’s got a chair! So I hear, anyway.”

Sunstreaker barked a laugh at the thoughtful statement. “That’s exactly why the office won’t work. You’d break the lock in three seconds just on principle.”

“I promise I’ll be good?”

“Pfft.”

“Pretty please with extra ammo on top let me go?” Jazz begged soft and pretty, twisting to look up at the golden mech walking as rear guard. “I know whose palm t’ grease t’ get a case of that polish you like.”

Sunstreaker faltered. 

Sideswipe tugged extra hard on Jazz’s legs, pulling ahead pointedly. “No,” the red twin said in a firm voice. “You’re going in the closet. We’re under orders.”

“Nooooooo -- “

Up ahead, a familiar shape turned the corner.

The strident protest cut off abruptly on a hissed curse.

Prowl looked up from his tablet to nod a greeting to Sideswipe as they passed each other, but he stopped dead as he registered what the frontliner was dragging. 

“’sup?” Jazz slid by on his side, one hand on his hip and the other propping up his head, elbow scraping along the floor just ahead of Sunstreaker’s feet. 

“Hello?” Dumbfounded, Prowl stared down at the black-and-white sliding past. Nothing in his experience had prepared him for this.

Jazz was cooler than cool. He was ultra-cool. He did this every day. Twice a day when he felt like it. That’s how cool he was right now. “How ya doin’?” 

“I…am fine. Are you -- ?“ Prowl looked at Jazz, then at Sideswipe, then at Sunstreaker. Sideswipe grinned. Sunstreaker looked like an angry wall. A gorgeous, angry wall, which only he could manage. It was a special class of blank expression reserved for beautiful mechs with bad temperaments. Prowl quickly looked back to Jazz, optics widening slightly in silent question. Should he be helping the downed officer? Was -- was this somehow _sanctioned_ dragging? 

And what had his life come to that he wondered if this was a regular occurrence around here.

Jazz raised his hand off his hip to give the Praxian a jaunty salute. “Have fun beatin’ the scrap outta Wheeljack tonight. Heard he almost had y’ last time.”

Prowl turned slowly to watch him go, doors sagging and tablet hanging forgotten from his hand. He’d been in no way prepared for the outpost’s version of normal everyday life. “I…thank you. Will, ah. Will you be there?” The numb astonishment filling his voice made the polite inquiry sound like dread.

If Jazz flinched at it, he covered in a casual, dismissive wave. “Pssht, nah, I’m on duty. Catch y’ later!” Looking bored, he resumed his uber-casual pose as Sideswipe dragged him out of sight around the corner. The last thing he saw was Prowl staring after him, completely and utterly confused. 

As soon as they were out of sight, Jazz twisted to bury his face in the floor. “Frag meeeeeeee.”

Sideswipe didn’t let him go, but he and Sunstreaker coordinated a trade off of legs so that Jazz could continue hiding his face from the world. “You didn’t do too bad. It’s physically possible for you to have done worse,” Sunstreaker said.

Jazz moaned, closing his arms tightly around his helm to shut out the universe. Embarrassment throbbed through him. “That was so **stupid**. Why’d he have to see that? Why?”

“’Cause the universe hates you,” Sideswipe told him.

“Don’t I **know** it.”

The twins shook their heads at his misery. Jazz whimpered. After a while, he let his arms trail limply as he knocked his forehelm against the floor in time with muttered self-reproach. He definitely could have handled that better. He wasn’t sure how, but gaaaaaah, how humiliating. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe kept hauling him along, but he didn’t fight it. If not for his paintjob and occasional self-pitying _’weeeeeh’_ moan, the people they passed might have thought they were disposing of a corpse. 

Eventually, they arrived at the closet, and the two frontliners looked down at him. He sat up, rubbing his scuffed nose. “Did I really do okay?” he asked in a small voice. His visor shone a limpid, earnest blue. 

“You didn’t ask him out, so I guess you did alright. But I’m not Prowl. Who knows what’s okay by his standards.” Sideswipe keyed open the door. “Door-to-door delivery, sir! Have a good shift.” Hint hint.

Jazz glared into the closet. As promised, there were boxes of tablets for him to work on waiting inside. “I don’t wanna go in there.”

“Tough. You’re gonna go in there. It’s where all the files are now, so shoo. Go on.”

“But I just…” He heaved a sigh, looking away. He knew what the shift schedule said, and what Ironhide said about people who didn’t follow it. That didn’t stop him from giving his escorts a pleading look. “Can’t y’ just…not? Please? I’ll be good. I’ll stay in the back. He won’t even see me. Please?”

“Jazz, seriously. Don’t do that.” Augh, Bluestreak’s wounded cyberpuppy look was easier to bear. Jazz put a quiver in his bottom lip that should be illegal. Nobody so lethal should look so cutely sad.

“Please? Please please? You can sit on me or somethin’. Cut me a break, guys. C’mon, please?” 

The begging made them shift uncomfortably from foot to foot. Having an officer grovel wasn’t nearly as fun as Mirage’s filthy erotica stash had led them to believe. It mostly just sent second-hand embarrassment zinging hot flashes through them.

Jazz begged, “I just want to watch. You can let me watch. I won’t be any trouble. Please, guys, please?”

“You’re on duty, and so’re we,” Sunstreaker snapped. 

“Right, and nobody off-duty has to give up their free time to mind you,” Sideswipe said. “They would, if we let you go. You **never learn** , Jazz. You do the same rusted thing every time! And with all due respect, sir, you’re a sexual harassment case waiting to happen. You walk that line so often Smokescreen’s the only one who bets on you slipping off anymore.”

Sunstreaker snorted and said, “Get your head screwed on straight.”

“I’m tryin’! Frag, you know how much I want to -- “

“Whatever. Try harder,” Sideswipe said at the same time Sunstreaker said, “How many kicks in the aft do you need? I’ll take another month in confinement if that’s what it’ll take.”

“Sir,” they both finished.

Jazz looked up at them silently for a minute. To his credit, he turned what they’d said over in his mind, really giving it some thought. “Question,” he said after a minute.

“Answer.”

“Heh.” He rubbed the back of his neck, grimacing a bit at the embarrassment of having to ask. “Um. If I’m a good little ‘bot and get in the closet like I should, wouldja consider givin’ me a good reference later? Points for good behavior an’ all that?”

They stared at him, processors stalling. Today had gone topsy-turvy at some point, if Jazz, spymaster and saboteur extraordinaire, was humbly asking favors. Of…them. The low-ranking frontliner grunt soldiers. The Head of fragging Special Operations was asking them if they’d be his references.

It struck them both as a sign of the apocalypse. Surely the world had gone mad, and doom rode on the horizon.

In the spirit of the end times, Sideswipe shrugged, smiling that manic, careless grin he wore when slag hit the fan in combat. “Sure, why not? You do all your work and don’t try to escape, and we’ll put in a good word for you. Alright?”

Jazz solemnly nodded. “I’m gonna hold you to that.”

Reassuring, that was not. It took them a few minutes to stop staring at the closet door after it closed. Trailbreaker had to poke Sunstreaker in the side to get them to move along and let him guard Jazz. 

There was much less fuss kicked up inside the closet this time around. It made Trailbreaker suspicious. It made Smokescreen fear for his life. Sure, now SpecOps respected him for pulling one over on Jazz twice in a row, but what good did respect do him if he was dead?

So Jazz appearing out of nowhere scared the polish off him that night. “Aeeeeiii!”

Bumblebee and Mirage swooped in, ready to intercept, but Jazz merely plopped himself into the Praxian’s lap. 

‘Merely.’

Right, that was sort of like seeing the sky fall. “That doesn’t seem physically possible,” Bumblebee said to Mirage.

“I know. I can hear his engine racing, but he’s not being himself.” Mirage eyed his boss. “Are you feeling alright, sir? Have you been drinking heavily this evening? Would you like to take a nice stroll down to see Wheeljack? He can tuck you in for the night once you crash.”

“I’m not gonna crash,” Jazz hissed at them. He might need to lie down in a cool room to bring his temperature down to safe levels later, but that was later and this was now. Alright, he could do this. Drawing in a deep breath, hands denting his knees from the grip he had on them, he gathered his courage and looked Smokescreen right in the optics. “Smokescreen. Hi.”

“Hi?” It was hard to meet Smokescreen’s optics when Smokescreen was looking at everyone else as though praying they’d save him. Help. 

“How’re you?” Jazz was initiating Small Talk Script #6. He could to this. They’d worked on it endlessly.

Smokescreen smiled tentatively. “I’m fine. How are you?”

“I’m-fine,” the black-and-white recited. His visor didn’t stray from Smokescreen’s face. “Isn’t-the-weather-nice?”

Autobots all over the messhall watched in vague disbelief as Jazz plowed through the practiced chitchat. Skepticism bombarded him from all sides. His fingers dug little dents into his knees, but he didn’t look down at the bumper he was almost pressed against. Determined, he sucked in a deep vent of air and kept his visor steady. He was one of the best of the best of the Autobots. He was calm, cool, and confident. He could do a simple conversational script.

Primus, he could so easily imagine Prowl between his legs, sitting like this. 

No! “So!” he yelped. His hands clenched into fists. Time to go off-script. “I -- I thought, since y’ like games an’ all, maybe we could play one sometime?” His smile crumbled around the edges, forced too wide, but it still counted as a smile. It did!

Everyone stared at him.

“Subtle as a sledgehammer,” Mirage sighed.

Jazz abandoned any pretense of dignity he had and turned the woeful cuteness up to 11. “I got through asking! I thought the point-a all this was t’ have attainable goals. I can do this,” he said, desperately appealing to Smokescreen’s sense of fair play. “Gimme a chance, and I’ll prove this’s goin’ somewhere. I’ve gotten better, right? I’m not even -- “ He gulped, because it was _tempting_ to look down, but if he looked down he’d forget what he’d come here to do. “I’m not gropin’ you, or droolin’ on myself, or bein’ a dumbaft. Am I?”

Smokescreen didn’t look happy. That wasn’t the expression of someone believing a word Jazz said.

So he called for other people to speak for him. “Just one game?” he said, twisting about to give the whole room a look at his pitiful begging face. Pity him, fraggit!

If anyone thought it was strange an officer was begging permission for an off-duty activity from his subordinates, they didn’t act like it. A great many considering looks were exchanged. People jittered their hands in midair, expressions iffy. Maybe yes, maybe no? Sunstreaker and Sideswipe pointedly turned their hands up in a united shrug. That was as positive as they’d commit to.

It was more than he could expect, so Jazz would take it. “I won’t say a word t’ him if it ain’t t’ do with the game,” he promised, desperate. “Really, I won’t!”

“Mmhm.”

He knew he’d regret this, he just knew it, but he said it anyway. “What do I gotta do to convince you? I’ll do anything -- nnnno, whatever you’re thinkin’, no.” Too late. Mirage was already ghosting toward Ironhide’s table, and Jazz felt dread settle into his tanks. Mirage had a thing for good manners, and oh frag, Perceptor was heading their way. Science and snobbery were never a combination.

Jazz turned to look at Smokescreen, but the Praxian’s sympathetic smile only woke a tiny twinge under the paranoia. “They’re going to make me regret this, aren’t they?” he sighed.

Smokescreen shrugged, which did interesting things to his chest that Jazz _was not_ staring at. “I already set up the next game night to include you.”

“Really?”

“Ironhide has agreed to loan us his liquid nitrogen gun,” Mirage announced from behind them.

“Urk.” 

Perceptor stopped at the aristocrat’s side. “I believe I have a tub large enough to accommodate him.” Him being Jazz, it seemed, or at least that’s what the measuring look turned on the black-and-white seemed to mean. “I recommend beginning the process with him immersed, as constant agitation will prevent a solid freeze. We may have to break surface ice to extract him, however. I must note that although the temperature will drop sufficiently to chill his core down to crystallization levels, perhaps endangering normal functions, unless we continue to immerse him throughout the game, starting from near protective stasis will only keep his engine and central processor units cool for approximately -- “

Mirage smiled nastily at his boss. “After he’s out, I plan on inserting ice into certain intimate areas and taping them shut.”

Perceptor paused. Jazz’s visor went so wide it flickered white around the frame. 

“That will indeed extend the temperature dampening,” Perceptor said slowly. “How, ah…?”

“Ambulon has scans of everyone’s equipment for recasting.” Mirage waved a dismissive hand. “I shall simply make a mold. Wheeljack has already volunteered. Everything,” his optics narrowed to amused slits at Jazz, “is taken care of.” He was going to enjoy Jazz trying to hide waves of shivering while playing Prowl. Prongs of ice, right square in the happy places. Yes, he couldn’t wait to see Jazz’s libido try to get past _that_.

Jazz bravely grinned. “That’s, er, great. Glad we got that worked out. I’ll see y’ before the game starts.”

Mirage cocked his head to the side, smiling. “You might.” Or he and his conspirators might sneak up on their boss, truss him up, and dunk him in icy lust-suppressant before he had the chance to hide. 

A shiver that had nothing to do with cold went through Jazz. “You’re creepin’ me out here, Mirage.”

“Paint incident. Need I say more?”

 

**[* * * * *]**


	7. Pt. 7: Jazz tries too hard to act like nothing's changed.

**Title:** Spare Tires  
**Warning:** This inhabits a weird area where it’s a humor fic, but people sensitive to misunderstandings causing serious discomfort probably shouldn’t read.  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Continuity:** G1  
**Characters:** Autobots. And some Decepticons. Everybody?  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** Scenes set in the Third Wheel fic universe without actually being in the story. Fits in between Pt. 16 and 17 of Third Wheel.

 

**[* * * * *]**  
**Part Seven**  
**[* * * * *]**

It took a special kind of self-awareness not to know if one was a people person. Fortunately, Ultra Magnus didn’t qualify for that level of obliviousness.

He knew he didn’t come off as the most personable of mechs. His strict adherence to the regs didn’t encourage the ranks to see him as a close confidant the same way they embraced Kup’s persona of everyone’s drill sergeant, nor did he inspire a cult of personality the way Optimus Prime did. He couldn’t give an inspirational speech to save his life, honestly, and optics glazed over when he tried to tell a story. Whatever _’Good with People’_ circuit social mechs had running, Ultra Magnus’ was firmly switched off.

It didn’t bother him. He had a role to play in Autobot High Command, and it was that of the level-headed military general behind the figurehead that was the Prime. The Prime was the inspiration, the motivation, the driving force -- but the people like Ultra Magnus turned that vision into a reality. Maybe he didn’t lead at the forefront, but he supplied the sturdy support structure. He organized supply trains, ordered troop movements, and approved missions according to long-term strategic importance and short-term tactical analysis. He excelled at managing on a large scale, organizing and grasping the big picture of situations and possible outcomes. It was why Optimus Prime had promoted him to General.

Sure, the Autobots wouldn’t fall apart without him. Not right away, at least. Each division had its own organizational structure, with their individual hierarchies that sometimes didn’t make any sense to outsiders -- looking at Special Operations in particular, there -- and the day-to-day operations of a base could be handled by those people. A commander like Ironhide could deal with almost everything to do with the workings of a single outpost. Assemble a number of independently operating outposts, bases, and nomad units, however, all prioritizing themselves, and the Autobots would quickly devolve into complete chaos. The miscommunication alone caused via a lack of faction-wide imposed standard operating procedure would throw the supply network out the window. 

They were in the middle of war. Cybertron was devastated in areas, barren of life and resources. There was no time for confusion or infighting. Autobots would _starve to death_ if someone didn’t keep things working smoothly. 

Enter Ultra Magnus, the uncrowned king of Autobot authoritarianism. He was a hard-aft for rule-abiding civility. Break the regs and feel his wrath in triplicate.

Alright, so he wasn’t totally in charge and therefore imposed far less harsh punishments on rulebreakers than he preferred. That was fine. People rebelled against ruthless micromanagement, and anyway, he found following the Prime to be much more to his taste. Although he dearly wished to stuff Jazz into a box to mail to the Decepticons so they’d have to deal with his casual disregard for authority. The Prime kept denying his requests. It wasn’t the general’s call to make, but still, just in case, there was a big box addressed to Darkmount always at the ready in his office.

It was beyond him how Hot Rod, of all people, had ended up as his aide. Kup had said the young speedster needed a good role model. Ultra Magnus blamed his lack of social skills for how that argument ended up overriding his protests. 

The transfer was a helping hand for Ultra Magnus more than a promotion for Hot Rod. As much as the speedster irritated him, Ultra Magnus did understand that having a rash, hotheaded youth at his side tended to lighten the social burden put on him by his rank. He just…he _liked_ his job. Really, he did. Rules were easy to grasp, and completing forms or filling out reports according to established guidelines gave him an exhilarating sense of accomplishment. Overseeing the logistics of running an army was a challenge he rather enjoyed. The smaller social responsibilities of duty, however, were a monumental task. They piled up on his shoulders, burying him in small talk and inanities until he thought he’d suffocate.

Thus: Hot Rod as his aide.

Hot Rod swam in such things, lived and breathed them, and Ultra Magnus hid behind his aide during the worst situations. Hot Rod grinned, optics bright and eager at the thought of an informal gathering, whereas Ultra Magnus cringed. Socializing wearied him. People didn’t tend to adhere to rules of behavior outside of formal boundaries, and keeping up with the chaos of others tended to tire him quickly. 

He could lead a unit or command a base, but his reluctance to become involved at the personal level was notorious. He dreaded hearing about other’s personal lives for fear they would attempt to include him in the disorder. His disinterest in off-duty base life earned him a reputation as a stiff-necked officer obsessed with the regs, but the speculation as to how the rulebook had become lodged up his tailpipe didn’t bother him. His rank allowed him to ignore anything he overheard. 

Duty was a sanctuary. It imposed order around him, set out what he needed to do each day, and absorbed most of his time. While he didn’t mind conversing with close friends in the scant hours he allowed himself off-shift, his idea of a relaxing night was shutting the door of his blessedly private room to revel in the solitude. Having a room to himself was the best perk of rank, he’d found. The cramped barracks the rank and file lived in had been the Pit for him. Even the officer barracks were only a step up from terrible. A bunk’s privacy curtain was an inadequate barrier. 

He needed solitude. He needed time alone. Ultra Magnus simply had a social battery that ran perpetually low, requiring recharge before he could face people again. 

Which was why he was relieved to see Prowl stalking Jazz around the meeting table. 

Of course it was more subtle than hunting the Head of Special Operations to tag and release into the wild, but the Praxian was definitely sidling after him. Jazz bounced from person to person in a bewildering display of easy charm -- it tired Ultra Magnus just watching him chit-chat with six people at once -- and Prowl kept sliding into the small groups to join the conversation. Then Jazz would zoom to the next group, and Prowl would follow after a moment. 

It was a slow-motion chase, subdued enough to pass under the radar for most of the people present. If Ultra Magnus hadn’t worked with Prowl this long, he wouldn’t have recognized intent in the set of Prowl’s doors. The Head of Strategic Planning was _interested_.

Thank Primus. Ultra Magnus respected Prowl as an officer. He was fond of him as a friend. That being said, if he had to sacrifice one more night of precious off-duty solitude to the mech’s company, Ultra Magnus was going to toss Prowl out on his chevron.

The sex was great, lest anyone misinterpret his growing discomfort. Ultra Magnus enjoyed interfacing as much as the next mech, and Prowl approached it like a battle to be won. The methodical way he went at it appealed to Ultra Magnus as much as the actual act itself, but that wasn’t to dismiss the cabling. The TacHead’s high-performance Enforcer engine generated enough heated charge that the pulse from his upgraded processors nearly blew Ultra Magnus’ firewalls from the sudden data rush. The general overloaded so hard it occasionally necessitated a morning check-up in the medbay whenever self-repair couldn’t patch all of the blown circuits.

Prowl seemed driven by some personal demon to keep ramping ever-upward to an unknown goal. Physical exhaustion, perhaps. Ultra Magnus had noticed the Praxian rarely slept well unless fragged limp beforehand. Pleasure was a means to an end for him. A task to be finished, or an act of defiance against something or someone only he knew.

“I find myself in need of intimate company,” Prowl had bluntly stated at the end of one of their shifts working together. He’d folded his hands on the desk between them. “Would you be opposed to interfacing?”

Ultra Magnus hadn’t been opposed. He certainly wasn’t about to turn down an offer from an attractive mech with charge to burn. “I would not.”

“Excellent.”

The proposition had surprised him, but so far as he’d been able to cobble together in his working handbook of unofficial Autobot base social rules, interfacing was a good activity for acquaintances to do together, much like visiting the firing range for a bout of friendly competition or inviting one another to sit at the same table in the messhall. Mutual respect rated as a secondary concern to mutual lust. Since they were already friends, their prior relationship allowed them to sidestep the awkward niceties of testing the waters for interest.

Besides, Prowl already understood how Ultra Magnus functioned. He knew what he was getting into fragging the general. He’d transmitted a checklist.

Ultra Magnus liked lists. “This is very detailed,” he’d praised Prowl while perusing the various acts. 

“There’s an open blank at the bottom for suggestions. I’m very open,” Prowl had said politely.

And so he was. Open to the point that Ultra Magnus couldn’t really think of anything to add to the list. They’d discussed Ultra Magnus’ choices for a short time before the Praxian accompanied him to his quarters, whereupon they’d interfaced. It had been nice. 

It’d set the pattern for the nights following. They worked, Prowl met him outside his quarters, and they fragged until one or both of them couldn’t go another round. Afterward, Prowl would stagger back to his own bunk if he had the energy. There was no talking outside of discussion of what, when, and how the interfacing would happen. 

Prowl hadn’t explained why he’d suddenly begun turning up outside Ultra Magnus’ door every night. Despite a niggling sense of worry for the abrupt change in his friend’s behavior, Ultra Magnus felt no need to soften his stern stance on not becoming involved in the personal affairs of others. Their current level of interaction could be dealt with easily, and Ultra Magnus didn’t want to upset the precarious balance of authority and intimacy they’d achieved.

But he badly wanted his solitude back. The sex was great, but the constant offduty company had started to feel…oppressive. Prowl’s picture could substitute for the dictionary opposite of ‘clingy,’ yet the Praxian’s nightly presence in Ultra Magnus’ bunk gave him no opportunity to recover his social equilibrium. Ultra Magnus had been holding onto his temper by the fingertips for the last couple of days as he tried to compose a polite method of dropping a hint that Prowl should find another lover just to give him a _break_. 

Ultra Magnus liked interfacing, but it clashed badly with how little he liked people. Sometimes, he really wished he knew how to navigate social situations more gracefully. 

Other times, he had Jazz.

Or he would, if only Jazz would cooperate.

Covert observation of the situation over the top of his tablet showed that cooperation was a lost cause. Jazz continued to be a frustratingly unpredictable element in his plans. The Head of Special Operations was seemingly oblivious to the Praxian attempting to corner him. All of Jazz’s famous charm was in full display today, and the black-and-white apparently felt the need to lavish it on everyone in sight. Ultra Magnus had halted the meeting twice already as the manic mech zipped out into the hallway to catch up with someone passing by. Relevant people, which made it difficult to object to when Jazz brought them in to join the ongoing discussion, but the quartermaster must have added something extra to Jazz’s ration this morning. The saboteur was all but dancing in his seat the rare times he chose a chair to perch on.

Not in, because that would be entirely too civilized for the little menace. Every time the black-and-white used a chair wrong, Ultra Magnus strangled the need to bark at him to sit in the damn thing _right_. Hot Rod abused office furniture nearly the same way, and only a direct order had forced his aide into sitting down correctly. Every time Jazz sat in a chair backward, or balanced on the back, or sat on the table with his feet on the seat, or even laid on the floor with his feet propped up on it, he was a bad example. Ultra Magnus could almost _feel_ Hot Rod absorbing the bad influence. 

That was _not_ how to appropriately utilize a chair! It was a chair, for Primus’ sake! _Why was this such a difficult concept to grasp._

Still, he had tolerated worse from the Head of Special Operations. Jazz thrived on contradictions, including that of simultaneously existing as an authority figure and delinquent. 

Ultra Magnus though longingly of the mailing box in his office. Ah, well.

In any case, it wasn’t unusual for Jazz to be a whirlwind of motion. The mech had two settings: deathly still or nonstop motion. What did ping the general as somewhat strange -- and annoying, under the circumstances -- was the distinct lack of flirting happening today. 

He’d become resigned to Jazz’s bizarre attempts to inject laughter into meetings. Ultra Magnus found the incidents unprofessional, but the silliness kept everyone else amused. A high rate of idiotic stunts centered around Jazz’s overblown, over-the-top expressions of romantic foolishness, and anytime he was in the same room as Prowl, everyone could be guaranteed a minor show. 

Today being the exception. Which was getting on Ultra Magnus’ nerves. The one time he wanted Jazz to hit on Prowl, and the mech was being a contrary slaghead about picking up cues even Ultra Magnus could spot! 

There were at least two people between the two officers at all times during the meeting, something Ultra Magnus would have dismissed as accidental if he hadn’t witnessed Prowl find an excuse to send one mech out of the group and Jazz casually add another person three times in a row. Hot Rod was one of the current barriers in place, and Ultra Magnus curbed the urge to summon his aide to his side for no reason other than getting Prowl laid with someone else. Matchmaking was _not_ an acceptable use of administrative assistants, especially one who idolized half the officers in this meeting. Ultra Magnus would enforce proper behavior in this meeting even if it was the last thing he really wanted right now.

Prowl’s doors were high and tight, twitching in frustration. Ultra Magnus understood the feeling. He had no idea what had happened to change the meeting routine, but it was clear Jazz was determined to keep things out in the open. There would be no private asides. All business. Smiling, friendly, impersonal business. It was as though he was making some sort of point.

Jazz flitted about, eventually alighting on the seat between Hoist and Kup to chatter about mission parameters. “Pardon me, but I would like to sit here,” Prowl said to Hoist, but Jazz popped out of the seat like he was spring-loaded.

“Hey, no problem, take my seat!” the black-and-white offered as if willfully ignoring the fact that Prowl was attempting to sit beside him. “I gotta go hassle Springer. C’mon, Hot Rod, watch the master at work.” He promptly vaulted over the table, grinning fiercely. Messing with the Wrecker’s mind wasn’t in his job description, but Ultra Magnus had come to the conclusion that Jazz considered it a hobby.

For the record, Jazz didn’t start the resulting fight. Ultra Magnus couldn’t even say the small Autobot provoked it. Jazz did end it, however, and Kup sat there at the table nodding sagely as his protégé ate floor. “Special Ops,” he said to the Praxian now sitting beside him. “Am I right?”

The look in Prowl’s optics was one Ultra Magnus had recently become acquainted one: restless lust. Almost hunger, but only if the hunger was for something other than energon. Prowl wanted to interface, and he wanted to go at it right this minute. Apparently, watching Jazz verbally and physically spar turned him on. Doors tense and optics starved, he watched Jazz mop the floor with Springer. The laughing ease of a dangerous mech at play taunted the green Wrecker, but it appeared to tease the TacHead.

When Jazz had thoroughly trounced Springer -- “It’s not the size, it’s how a mech uses it!” -- the black-and-white just so happened to find a free seat nowhere near Prowl. Prowl narrowed his optics at the meeting agenda, immensely displeased, but Jazz was seven kinds of unaffected by everything. He started talking training programs with Kup and Hot Rod.

Ultra Magnus looked around the table. Nobody else seemed to notice anything wrong.

How was he supposed to convince Jazz that Prowl wanted him?

 

**[* * * * *]**


	8. Pt. 8: Meanwhile, among the Autobots

**Title:** Spare Tires  
**Warning:** This inhabits a weird area where it’s a humor fic, but people sensitive to misunderstandings causing serious discomfort probably shouldn’t read.  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Continuity:** G1  
**Characters:** Autobots. And some Decepticons. Everybody?  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** Scenes set in the Third Wheel fic universe without actually being in the story. Follows Pt. 18 of Third Wheel.

 **[* * * * *]**  
**Part Eight**  
**[* * * * *]**

 

There came a time in a strategist’s life when he scraped the bottom of the barrel for tactics. Prowl was certain he’d reached that point.

He had plenty of useable assets at hand, but due to reactions from those involved, he had few options left for how to use them. He was down to to deploying the fringe-chance plans. Nothing else had worked, and his predictions were wholly off-kilter, leaving him scrambling to keep the operation’s cover in place.

Look, he planned for every contingency, but the most likely plans had gotten the most development. Then the more-likely plans, which covered a wider range of less-probable reactions. By the time he’d filed the least-likely plans, there simply hadn’t the time or concentration to spend fleshing them out further than basic outlines.

Unfortunately, Prowl had badly misjudged the people involved, and now he was scrambling to recover.

“While treason is of course a serious offense,” he said carefully, optics on his tablet to project cool detachment, “you seem to be taking this particular instance personally.”

Jazz’s head whipped around in immediate, snarling anger at the implied disapproval. “Of course I’m takin’ it personal! Not everybody’s got a block of ice for a -- ”

“Lieutenant!” Ultra Magnus lifted a hand as if to restrain the spymaster. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d booted the black-and-white from a meeting for failing to keep a civil tongue, but the extremity of Jazz’s reaction served to illustrate Prowl’s point well. 

Subsiding back into his chair, Jazz compacted into a small bundle of bad mood and murder. Prowl cocked an optic ridge at the muttering, which was unsettlingly instructive in nature. Well, then. That reaction was both disturbing and unhelpful, but he hadn’t known a clogged intake could be used in quite that manner.

Ultra Magnus glanced at Prowl’s own doors before giving the TacHead a chiding look, but what could he say? The general was hardly going to bring up the topic in public. Even if he did, Prowl wasn’t about to explain that Jazz’s unpredictability was a frustration and turn-on rolled into one, much less that the mech’s sudden spate of hard-aft responsibility was a side he found unexpectedly attractive. The rest of the officers didn’t even notice Prowl’s arousal, making Ultra Magnus the exception, and after a moment of stern exasperation, the general turned his attention away.

A relief, as Prowl had no intention of acting on his charge. Being freed to seek physical relations again had taken the brakes off his libido, and knowing a viable partner was within reach triggered his equipment to sending hopeful activation pings. He ignored the pings and Ultra Magnus alike. While it was annoying to rev up under the circumstances, circumstances changed.

In fact, perhaps he could use this. Prowl made a note of potential options for distraction, ruefully acknowledging that reaching the bottom of the barrel inspired him to a level of creative improvising he normally ruled out. He hadn’t anticipated Jazz being so locked on assassinating Smokescreen. The risk had been there, but this personal, frothing anger surprised everyone, if the wary stares from around the table were anything to go by. 

Although Ironhide merely nodded. What did he know that Prowl hadn’t. The TacHead had been sure he knew all the angles, going into this covert operation, but this meeting had been proving him wrong since it started.

A trend that continued with Ironhide stating, “This ain’t just a low-ranked defection.” Jazz twitched in his seat, giving him a suspicious look, but Ironhide shrugged it off. “I might not be one-a yours, but I see what happens in my outpost. You were usin’ Smokes for something more than some off-duty advice.”

Jazz looked away, his frown one of discomfort and rage as inquiring looks turned on him from around the table. “Yeah. Could say that. You,” he gestured at Prowl and Ultra Magnus, “got that head-doctor for your Wreckers. He keeps th’ crazy down to acceptable margins and all that, right?” He didn’t appear to notice that Kup and Springer were right there at the table with him. Or he just didn’t care. Either was a possibility, considering the rivalry between Wreckers and Special Operations. 

Springer bristled, but Kup nodded agreement and the younger Wrecker reluctantly let it go. He sat back, folding his arms to glare across the table at Jazz. Rung’s position existed in order to evaluate the Wreckers for active duty, but his official description didn’t cover how his mere presence gave many of the unit a listening audio that reached out when it seemed the rest of the Autobots shrank away. Counseling sessions were an outlet that bled off stress before the strain made the more volatile Wreckers snap. 

Prowl narrowed his optics, dipping his own chin in a nod even as his thoughts shifted. “Smokescreen was reassigned to Medical, but there’s no mention of anything further.” In the context of Outpost 49-B6-4, he’d assumed the dual positions Smokescreen held in Medical and Special Operations were part of the budget maneuvering between Ambulon and Jazz. After all, Wheeljack was an adequate nurse but it was well-known he belonged to Engineering outside of the outpost. Ambulon simply had a deft hand at grabbing for funds.

Jazz shot Prowl a _’duh’_ look. “Mech, no chance in the Pit I’d make a position that sensitive official. My people would mute it on principle if they thought a shrink was screenin’ them, and the ‘Cons **would** have found out. They’d have painted a target on his back visible from orbit. Worse, ‘cause they’d have given anything to take him alive, what with the info that kind of position packs int’ a mech’s head.” 

The Wreckers grimaced, and heads nodded thoughtfully around the table. Prowl turned up his hand, conceding the point. Keeping Rung safe was a high priority for exactly that reason, and the psychotherapist didn’t have the identities and emotional weaknesses of undercover agents in his databanks. The Decepticons could use the information he held, but they couldn’t _use_ it. Not like they could use information against spies, saboteurs, and specialists. 

It made a dreadful amount of sense of the execution order slapped on the table. Jazz had called an emergency meeting the second it was clear Smokescreen had disappeared, and what had shocked Prowl was the immediate jump to destroying the renegade. No discussion of why he’d gone missing, no speculation on motivation for selling out to Shockwave, no interest in anything beyond instant pursuit and assassination. With that sort of information at stake, Special Ops really would go to any length to eliminate the threat, especially since all signs pointed to Smokescreen willfully betraying the Autobots for no reason beyond covering a gambling debt.

Prowl would know. He’d been the one to set-up the trade to Shockwave, and it had been a real trade. Smokescreen had handed over actual information on the outpost, and in return he’d received a gross amount of shanix. He’d used it to flee instead of repay the fictional debt, but that was enough to condemn him even without knowing what position he’d been inadvertently filling for Special Operations.

No wonder Jazz wanted his head on a platter. 

This hashed the entire operation. Prowl’s processors spun frantic scenarios searching for a new plan while around him the meeting went on.

“I didn’t **want** him figurin’ out what he was doin’,” Jazz said. The black-and-white put his elbows on the table, hands rubbing his face under his visor. Tired bewilderment seeped off him, and Prowl’s spark clenched. He’d known Jazz and Smokescreen were friends, but it was different to see how badly this was effecting Jazz. “You got any idea what trouble I went through to keep anyone from findin’ out what I used him for? Primus alive, I’m hopin’ he still don’t know.”

Ironhide frowned down at him. “He didn’t know?”

Jazz offered a listless shrug. “He wouldn’t’ve been near as good if he’d known. Pssht. Mech can pull a good bluff, but he don’t got the nerve for long-term stress.” 

Prowl stopped his doors from jerking upward. That went contrary to his own assessment, which was worrisome. 

Jazz was too sunk in his own concerns to notice the aborted motion. “Frag, he got weird anytime we even pointed out he was matchmakin’. He did his best work when he didn’t think he was meddling, and…” He pinched the bridge of his nose, visor offline as he heaved a sigh. “This’s gonna put my division back int’ a pressure-cooker. Y’know, I’ve had six execution orders cross my desk since he transferred in. I’ve only had t’ authorize one. **One.** ” His visor lit wearily. “When it goes that far, not much brings my people back, but he did, an’ I know he didn’t know what he was doin’. He set two of ‘em up on blind dates, hugged the living slag out of one-a ‘em, and who the frag knows what he did for the other two but I shelved th’ kill orders after they’d been a month in the outpost.”

Ironhide leaned back in his seat. “This why our transfer rate went through the roof?”

“Er.”

“Hey, I ain’t judging. You do what you gotta do to keep your mechs sane and loyal.” Ironhide shrugged. “It just makes sense of why I had soldiers cycling in and out without me signing the orders.”

Awkward. Jazz coughed into his hand, gaze sliding away from Ironhide. “I went with what worked.”

“Uh-huh.” But behold Ironhide’s peeved expression of being left out of the loop. An explanation would have been nice anytime before it got this far. Going over the outpost commander’s head was rather rude.

Time for a transparent topic change! Jazz reset his vocalizer and straightened slightly. “Don’t give me grief! You wanna talk about transfers? Why the frag were you so set on transferring Smokescreen out? I had to block him from leavin’ every other month!”

Irritation melted into confusion. “Huh? Whatcha talking ‘bout?”

Prowl blinked as well, wondering what that was about. He had assumed Smokescreen had never requested transfer, given that the other Praxian seemed deeply involved in the outpost. 

Jazz opened his mouth to snap something, but Optimus Prime interrupted. “Enough. Given his degree of involvement with Special Operations, I support Jazz’s proposal. Eliminating Smokescreen takes priority over defense preparations.”

Optics widened around the table, Prowl’s among them. This. This was exactly the problem he kept running into! Right as he settled on a plan for dealing with unknown elements, another component collapsed the fragile outline! Jazz didn’t need external approval of an auxiliary member of the SpecOps Division, but Smokescreen technically belonged to Medical as well. The Prime usually gave the benefit of the doubt, and Prowl had been counting on that. There was, after all, no evidence one way or another of coercion, and while someone with Smokescreen’s history falling into debt was plausible, Prowl had assumed Jazz would be delayed by the Prime’s tendency toward mercy and understanding.

The Prime wasn’t at the base, but the screen at the head of the table allowed him to be present for officer meetings. He folded his hands before the camera, optics sad and solemn above his mask. “The sensitive information he possesses, even without his knowledge, can’t be allowed to fall into Decepticon hands. Moreover, treason can’t pass unpunished. Shockwave will move soon based on what information was passed to him.”

A very true thing, except Prowl knew the truth, and he’d been _relying_ on the Prime’s infinite compassion to delay Jazz enough to give Smokescreen a headstart. The outpost couldn’t mobilize for a mechhunt immediately. Smokescreen needed time to escape, and Prowl needed time to seed the outpost with his own watchers, hidden among troop transfers bolstering the outpost garrison against the anticipated assault. The Decepticon infiltrator would slip up eventually, but not if Jazz assassinated Smokescreen with time to return for the attack. 

Prowl was in position to know that Shockwave had already been preparing for an offensive. The information Smokescreen had sold to the Decepticons had been carefully meted out, an acceptable risk to an already compromised outpost. It had bought Smokescreen a solid cover story for both sides of the war, but Jazz didn’t know that. Neither did Optimus Prime. 

Prowl kept his optics on his tablet as the Prime formally authorized the execution request. He’d made too many assumptions. Jazz had held vital information about Smokescreen close to his chest. Prowl couldn’t speculate what the Prime knew that had boosted killing Smokescreen to an urgent issue with no time for further investigation.

Unless.

New information opened avenues of thought Prowl hadn’t known existed, and he frowned at the tablet without seeing it. The information chip Smokescreen had left him sat heavy in his forearm compartment. “Give it to my best friend,” the gambler had told him, flashing a cocky grin. “You’ll know him. None of this’s gonna be easy, but he’s the only one I can’t let think I screwed over. Okay?”

“It would be more helpful if you simply told me who to send this to,” Prowl had said, but the other Praxian snorted. 

“You’re thinking you won’t give it to anyone, no matter who I say it,” he’d said, and it’d been a shrewd guess. Prowl had refused to react to the accuracy. Smokescreen had smirked. “Yeah. I know how operational security works, but trust me. I can’t tell you ‘cause even saying this right now’s a security issue on my end. I’m doing the best I can. You’ll hand it over once you figure out what I mean.”

Originally, Prowl had thought Smokescreen meant Wheeljack. They seemed close. The red and gold frontliners at the outpost were also an option, or so he’d thought. Once Jazz marched into the meeting practically spitting fire, Prowl had shifted to believing the friend in question was the Head of Special Operations himself. However, there was one option, an extremely far-fetched option Prowl would have never thought of, but now it made a tremendous amount of sense.

His optics lifted to the screen at the end of the table, taking in the Prime’s sadness. Sadness for betrayal by an Autobot, yes, and solemnity for passing judgment, but this wasn’t the first execution order Optimus Prime had approved. To Prowl’s optics, the Prime seemed far too downtrodden for the death of a traitor.

Jazz was pushing for Smokescreen’s death due to the security risk the mech posed to Special Operations. Maybe, just maybe, the Prime was rushing to close an even deeper hole in their defenses. There was little information more sensitive than the intimacies exchanged by friends.

As Smokescreen had said, Prowl knew his best friend when he saw him. It did explain the comment about it being a security issue to even mention it.

Prowl dimmed his optics as the next item on the emergency meeting agenda was brought up. The outpost defenses would need to be reworked in a short amount of time, but he didn’t have to think about them to participate in that discussion. All of that was already planned out. What had his processors aching was the whirlwind of new information thrust upon him. He was down to the bare framework of a working plan. 

1\. Give the Prime Smokescreen’s message chip. Hope that he’d given it to the right person, and what if he had? Oh, but did that suddenly change his perspective on so many of Smokescreen’s past actions. Also the Prime’s. When had they become friends? How much influence did they have on each other?

No. No, Prowl couldn’t take the time to explore every branching cause-and-effect right now.

2\. Distract Jazz to create the crucial time period Smokescreen needed to make good his escape. Prowl was going to have to pry up the bottom of the barrel for something to throw in the laser-focused spymaster’s path, there. Official means had failed. Jazz had steamrolled through every argument Prowl had made at the start of the meeting, and now he seemed to be scribbling assassination plans like a maniac, to the point of ignoring Springer. That was profoundly wrong.

Prowl was going to have his work cut out for him. For the sake of Smokescreen, he had to try, and he held a faint hope Smokescreen’s suggested method might actually work as claimed. The gambler had yet to steer Prowl wrong, odd as it seemed. And his engine _was_ motoring along. 

Hmm. Prowl could indeed use this.

“Okay, so, like, there’s something I’ve gotta bring up,” Hot Rod said when they reached the end of the agenda. He raised his hand nervously until everyone turned their attention to him. “Can I speak, sirs?”

Ultra Magnus nodded permission to him, mildly surprised but confident his assistant wouldn’t interrupt for no reason. “You **may** speak.”

Hot Rod blinked at the correction, then obviously ignored it. Ultra Magnus sighed. Hot Rod bounced in his seat. “Uhhhh, right. So, all these showed up in the last two days,” the speedster said, spreading a large fan of tablets out on the table in front of himself. The officers around the table craned their necks to see, and he quickly picked one up to display to them. It had Red Alert’s name on it. “Transfer requests.”

“Frag.” Ironhide buried his face in his hands.

“Yeeeeeeah.” Hot Rod put the tablet down again. “Nobody wants to stay at the outpost, and most of them added a note about taking any assignment that’ll get them out, they don’t even care where to.”

Ironhide’s engine coughed angrily as it turned over. “Damn traitor was a linchpin.” Take Smokescreen out, and an otherwise stable outpost exploded.

Jazz’s head popped up at that, visor sharp. “Y’got no idea. My best spy’s goin’ on guilt-trips that he drove him to this, and a couple of my other mech’s aren’t much better.”

The ice in Prowl’s tanks started migrating up the sides. Sacrificing the outpost to Shockwave’s advance had been decided even before the suspected infiltration of Special Operations, but there was a vast difference between a strategic withdrawal and disintegration under stress. This would take a personal toll on everyone involved. It would make them crave vengeance.

Prowl had to buy Smokescreen time.

“Jazz, may I speak to you a moment?” he asked at the close of the meeting as spymaster stood up, ready to follow Ironhide out.

Jazz hesitated. Ironhide narrowed his optics at Prowl but apparently decided they were mature mechanisms. The commander headed for the door. 

Hesitation stretched out into dithering. Jazz had things to do, people to murder, but he clearly remembered what had happened the last time Prowl had asked him for a moment of his time. “I gotta go,” Jazz said as if forcing the words out. “Go. Give assignments. Do, um, stuff.“

Prowl stepped around the table, conveniently blocking an easy exit. “Surely you have time for a short conversation.” 

Kup gave him a knowing look while herding Springer out of the room. Right. ‘Conversation.’ Yeah, Kup heard the low purr coming from Prowl’s direction. He wasn’t fooled. The Wrecker pointedly closed the door behind himself, leaving the two division heads alone. 

A swallow worked Jazz’s throat as the door closed. “Now’s really not the time.” His engine whined softly, however, and Prowl could see temptation struggling against duty in the wide visor watching him approach.

“Is it not?” Prowl asked lightly. Smokescreen, it seemed, was once again correct. Prowl and interfacing in the same sentence could make Jazz’s head spin. 

The tablet in Jazz’s hands cracked as his thumbs pressed into the screen. “Prowl…I…this isn’t a good idea…”

It might be a dirty trick pulled from underneath the barrel itself, but watching Jazz struggle to stay responsible built a tight heat around Prowl’s spark. Competency was always attractive. Prowl had distantly admired Jazz in action, whatever his feelings on the mech playing a fool, and allowing himself to feel more than admiration warmed his wires. Add to that the challenge of Jazz resisting what amounted to attempted seduction, and Prowl was surprised to find himself all the more interested in interfacing the spymaster right here on the table. 

Well, he did like a good chase. Competency, responsibility, resistance? Prowl’s buttons were being pushed. 

Even if this didn’t work, at least he’d burn off some charge.

Prowl leaned forward, and Jazz met him halfway. Between them, the broken tablet full of assassination plans fell forgotten to the floor, but Jazz’s fingers were busy sliding up under Prowl’s popped hood, and Prowl pulled gently on the lower lip captured by his teeth. Jazz moaned, soft and full of the stuttered sound of an engine skipping as Prowl reached down to tug his thigh. Jazz obligingly hiked it up over the TacHead’s hip. That plopped the shorter mech’s aft back on the table, one of Prowl’s hands cushioning and groping it at the same time, and in the shuffle forward, the tablet on the floor just so happened to get kicked across the room. Oops. What a shame.

Leaning over Jazz, Prowl hooked his fingers in a wheelwell to keep him in place while he rocked his chest against the tentative fingers brushing over his engine. Jazz seemed almost drunk on the attention but mostly paralyzed, and Prowl needed him more involved than this. The point of this endeavor was to keep him too occupied to notice time passing.

He brought his other hand down to scoop Jazz’s knee up, pulling it up until it went up over his other hip. There. His hands slid around the smaller mech, smoothing along the small of Jazz’s back. The pert aft earned a stroke of its own, Prowl filling his palms with it for a moment before returning to running his thumbs along Jazz’s waist, fingers working under the altmode roof on the black-and-white’s back. Jazz made a low, happy sound into his mouth, absolutely docile as Prowl ended the kiss to nudge their noses together. 

“Do you have time for this?” he asked quietly.

“Muh,” Jazz said. It might have been something more coherent, but whatever it was lost as he attempted to find Prowl’s mouth for another kiss.

Good enough. A quick jerk, and Jazz overbalanced backward, bending over the hands steadying him as he went down. Prowl leaned forward to follow, and Jazz’s visor lit up as that put Prowl’s bumper right under his chin. All thoughts of traitors and duty seemed to have fled.

Prowl had no idea how long he could make this last, but he had every reason to find out today. For Smokescreen’s sake.

For his own tingling cables, too, but mostly for Smokescreen.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	9. Pt 9: Double-Blind

**Title:** Spare Tires  
 **Warning:** This inhabits a weird area where it’s a humor fic, but people sensitive to misunderstandings causing serious discomfort probably shouldn’t read.  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Autobots. And some Decepticons. Everybody?  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Scenes set in the Third Wheel fic universe without actually being in the story. Follows Pt. 19 of Third Wheel.

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part Nine**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

Autobot Special Operations agents spent most of their time in a kiss analyzing how they could use it against the person they were kissing. 

It was a hazard of the job. The division had a special training section devoted to the use of interfacing in infiltration and attack. Maybe normal people didn’t view kissing as a convenient way to sucker an opponent in close, but hey, all the better to snog the unsuspecting. Weaponized sex relied on their targets falling for the trick, and kissing was one of SpecOps’ best tricks. 

It was a close combat move that left them open to attack from their targets, but that’s why they trained to do it better, faster, harder, sneakier. With less tongue, if the target had fangs. Every agent knew how kissing blocked the main field of vision, leaving only the peripherals to sense danger moving in. It occupied the mouth, disarming a volatile tool while opening a vulnerable chink in defenses. Best of all, it didn’t look like an attack to casual observers. 

All to say that kissing wasn’t Jazz’s favorite activity. It didn’t even make his Top Ten. Up until Prowl made it impossible to connect two thoughts, the spymaster regarded kisses with extreme suspicion. Making out was a distraction at best, an assassination attempt at worst. Sure, he could use it like no one else, don’t get him wrong. Jazz taught the masterclass on kissing the bolts off people. There was simply a cold, hard divide in his head when he did it, a clinical division between act and involvement. He felt nothing even as his mouth drove his partner to distraction. 

Then the damn Praxians got involved, and Jazz swore his lips still tingled. Professional detachment had nothing on that bumper. 

The spymaster was getting better, or at least he told himself he was out of a strained sense of optimism, but he still felt like he was mostly along for the ride once Prowl kissed him. If either of them was using their kisses for nefarious purposes, it wasn’t Jazz. In fact, he had the flustered certainty that he was missing something important every time Prowl let him up for air. 

He had no idea what Prowl was up to. The TacHead made it crystal clear he was using Jazz for his body, which fine. Awesome. Use away. It was just that Jazz couldn’t help but think it a rigged deal. He won the lottery on the world’s greatest interfacing and mindblowing overloads with Cybertron’s most smelting-hot strategic mind, and Prowl got…Jazz. Seemed like a poor trade. 

Yet Prowl kept snagging him for heated interfacing anytime they passed in the halls. He’d hoped Prowl might want a relationship, but hints of anything more emotional than a quickie earned Jazz quelling looks. Quite frankly, he’d been shot down less often during pitched battle.

Confusing him all the more the longer this stretched out. Where was the attraction for _Prowl?_ If he wasn’t in it for the sex _or_ romance, there had to be another reason he kept coming back to _Jazz_ , of anyone in his panting crowd of admirers he could pick to warm his bunk. Jazz simply couldn’t see the angle. It was fragging with his head nearly as much as Prowl clanged his body these days. 

He’d been almost grateful the deep cover mission in Kaon required no contact with the Autobots. The time away from Prowl’s mind-muddling presence was helping Jazz get his head back on straight.

No comment on going to Smokescreen for advice. That was part of his mission cover, cross his spark.

Fortunately, Vortex had absolutely no interest in kissing. He knew what Meister’s sharp teeth and twitching hands were capable of, and he allowed them where he wanted and nowhere else. Meister’s mouth was frequently occupied when they fragged, but never by a kiss.

Meister bit down hard, the claw inside his mouth slicing into his cheek, and the high-strung Decepticon Jazz played froze in horror as the door to Vortex’s office slid open. Triggered by the sudden shock, shivering, pleasured pain flooded through their cables, although only Vortex cried out as overload snapped the connection. Meister’s jack rattled in Vortex’s port from the force. His optics flickered violently as tripped breakers reset. Behind his cover persona, however, cold calculation sized up the mech who’d just walked in. Right on time. 

“Swindle! I, uh.” Pink sprayed across the desk from the crushed finger hooked into his mouth, and Meister had to pause to spit the mess out. Swallowing rapidly to clear his mouth, he reset his vocalizer and tried again. “This isn’t what it looks like!”

“It’s what it looks like!” Vortex laughed. A second surge of energy broke through them, a minor overload from rampant exhibitionism alone.

Meister writhed as his oversensitive systems pulsed, sensors taxed to the point where pleasure became too much. “Mute it!” he hissed at the ‘copter pinning him down. Embarrassment thinned the rev of his engine into a whine.

Swindle’s expressive optics stayed bored, beyond unimpressed. Walking in on Vortex bending someone over the desk probably didn’t even register on the scale of depraved debauchery he’d witnessed -- Vortex had been recruited well before Swindle had joined Onslaught’s insurgence -- but Jazz could _see_ him make the connection. Nothing had to be said to cinch it. The groundwork had been laid for months, appointment after appointment heard about secondhand from Smokescreen or Meister himself suddenly clicking into focus as Swindle took in the tableau of pathetic lovelorn Meister and his manipulative, sadomasochist lover. 

How far could Vortex trust his contact in Kaon? The answer was right here, spelled out in hours of Smokescreen counseling the mech sprawled out on the desk under Vortex. Meister, minor Intelligence Officer assigned to safeguard shipments and ferry orders from Kaon to the moonbases and back again. Meister, who spent whole sessions bemoaning to Smokescreen how much he loved a lover who wouldn’t love him back. Meister, the poor sucker Vortex had seduced in way too deep to back out without destroying himself, and that made him pretty slagging trustworthy. Trustworthy enough to become a vital component of Onslaught’s plan, now that Swindle could vouch for him as well.

“When you said you had a contact in Kaon, I didn’t think he was your fragbuddy,” the conmech said to Vortex. He tossed the tablet he carried onto the unoccupied portion of the desk and nodded to the grounder squished next to it. “Meister. I don’t know why I thought you had better taste than him, but whaddya know, I did.” _Tsk_ ing regretfully, he shook his head. “You could do better.”

For all the humor Swindle put into it, Jazz recognized his words for the test they were. Vortex cocked an amused look up at the conmech, but Meister reacted perfectly, leaping to the defense of someone who would never defend him. Orange optics shot wide, then narrowed to angry, upset slits. Lurid-colored doors bristled in preparation to attack. 

Vortex pushed up off him before he could spit a barb back, however, and rotary frametypes hugely outmassed speedsters. Meister’s ventilation system emptied in an audible wheeze. “Frag you!” grunted out on the tail end of undignified gasping to re-inflate compressed air hoses.

Swindle tilted his head, one side of his mouth quirking up. “Eloquent.”

Meister dug fingers into the desk, engine sputtering toward a snarl. “I’ll eloquent my foot up your tailpipe.”

Rotors spun in blatant satisfaction. Yeah, Vortex had picked up on Swindle’s prod, too, and Meister’s instant anger pleased him. He had Shockwave’s lackey wrapped around his pinkie finger, and now they all knew it. “You’re overestimating him, Swindle,” the interrogator said lazily as he jerked their cables loose. Meister yowled in outraged pain, but Vortex just raised his voice to be heard over him. “I’m good enough. Might even be too good, but I’ll settle.” He patted Meister between the doors. Good frag toy. 

What made it better for Vortex was how the small grounder tensed up but didn’t protest. Meister shut his mouth, hurt flashing across his face at the casual cruelty, and the mech at his back gloated over his silence. Vortex did love to dig in and twist the knife on helpless mechs.

He patted Meister again before picking up the tablet. “This my info?”

“No, it’s my weekly love letter,” Swindle said just to watch Meister hate him a little more. “You ever get around to telling your boss I’m your source?”

“Interrogation, bribes, same difference. What Shockwave doesn’t know makes me indispensable.” Shockwave was no fool. He kept Vortex out of Kaon for peace of mind and physical safety of the Decepticon garrison based there, but the information Vortex supplied was vital to Shockwave’s experiments. Vortex wasn’t about to tell him the information was easily accessible for a proper fee paid to the right scientists. Depending on Vortex for information kept Meister running courier.

And as long as Vortex had his Intelligence mole down in Kaon, Onslaught had an insider to pass Shockwave flawed intel. Add in Swindle setting Smokescreen up as the straightmech fronting an independent trading company for on and off-world business, and the insurgence had its own secure supply chain off Shockwave’s radar. Blast Off was on regular orbital patrol, ready to take out the defense satellites, and Brawl was turret-deep in Kaon’s artillery messing with the maintenance crews. With Meister keeping Shockwave none the wiser, Swindle buying them weaponry, and all the players falling into place, Onslaught’s operation was well on its way to reality. He had everything he needed to pull off a coupe.

Well, he would if the Autobots weren’t using him for their own purposes. Hence why Jazz bent Meister’s helm before Vortex’s smug powerplay, biding his time. When Meister went double-agent, he wouldn’t just betray Onslaught. He’d name a list of loyal Decepticons, and Jazz had planted enough fabricated evidence to condemn them. Doubt would cloud even Shockwave’s notoriously clear logic circuits as pressure from Decepticon High Command came down on him to root out the traitors. In the heat of the trials, everyone would see treason everywhere, accusations and counter-accusation flying thick and fast. The Autobots wouldn’t have to so much as lift a finger to eliminate the commander of a moonbase and four of his closest conspirators, throw the moonbase itself into an uproar, and as a bonus, collapse Kaon into a knot of paranoia and infighting as the headhunt for traitors turned the Decepticons on each other.

That didn’t mean there wasn’t room to add another objective to the mission. Jazz had already set out to ensure Onslaught’s team had no support left when betrayal dropped down on it like a metrotitan. All avenues of retreat would be cut off. The operation was days away from really kicking into high gear, and Swindle walking into today’s tryst meant that Meister was now solidly in the fold, part of the conspiracy if not the inner circle. The time was right to kill two Seekers with one missile.

“Scat,” Vortex said, swatting Meister’s aft. “Get outta here.” The orange-and-red mech gave him a sullen glare for the dismissal but shoved off the desk anyway. Vortex ignored him and nodded to Swindle. “Shanix are on a timed deposit. Check your account in ten minutes, and it’ll be in.”

“I’ll be checking. A pleasure doing business, as always,” Swindle said lightly as he stepped aside to let Meister slap the door controls. He followed him out.

The second the door closed, Meister shot him a venomous look. Resentment practically smoked off him. “Shut up. Just shut up.”

Swindle widened his optics, playing innocent. “What? I didn’t say anything. Why would I say anything? What could I possibly have to say?”

Air hissed out between clenched teeth. “I know what he’s like. You’re not saying anything I don’t know!”

“Miiiiiiight be why I didn’t say anything.” Hands spread in _Who, Me?_ innocence, Swindle sauntered off down the corridor. A sigh pitied Meister as he went. “Shame you’re wasting so much money on something that’s not going anywhere, that’s all.” 

Meister stalked after him, arms held rigid at his sides and fists curled tight. It was telling how the anger making his doors quiver on his back didn’t turn on the mech walking in front of him. He was well-aware of who the idiot was here, and it wasn’t the friendly merchant he’d been hanging out with after relationship counseling sessions. 

They made fairly good companions, so far as these things went. Swindle still had trouble wrapping his mind around the idea of paying someone for advice, and Meister was a cranky glitch who liked to complain about his personal life. They headed to the nearest bar on automatic, then and now. 

Since drinking heavily was a Decepticon-approved form of therapy, some base commanders signed off on bars as mental health facilities. Meister registered with the bartender and got his first drink compliments of Health & Safety. He was in dire need of some old-fashioned griping, so he downed three drinks in quick succession to loosen up. 

“Not everybody nabs an Autobot,” he muttered once they kicked in. His nose was all but buried in the fourth glass. “Lucky fragger.”

Swindle had somehow conned him into buying the last round. Jazz had been aiming for the conmech to win, but even he wasn’t sure how Swindle had managed it. Now Swindle nursed the free drink along, watching the rest of the bar for potential customers. Distracted, he waved away the comment. “Smokescreen’s not an Autobot anymore, you know that.”

“Yeah, **right**. You don’t even know what you got, do you? You got an Autobot. A stupid slagging Autobot. He’s not a Decepticon, right? He didn’t take a brand. He might’ve left the ‘Bots, but he’s all goody-goody inside. He didn’t lose all those stiff-necked pretentious what’s-its.” Meister gestured vaguely as if trying to find the word, sloshing his drink. “Morals. That antiquated ethical code they got. You know how he keeps his word? Shockwave’s got a file on his contracts. Got a record, he does. He plays it straight on business deals and doesn’t screw people over unless they boff him first.” He eyed the half-empty glass in his hand and slammed it back before pointing a finger at Swindle. It wavered slightly. “Commitment, mech. Don’t ever underestidamentamate commitment. You can’t **buy** commityment around here, but him? He’d feel bad if he cheap -- cheek -- **cheat** ed on you. It’s the Autobotlot in him.” Satisfied, he nodded to himself. “Wouldn’t even interderdaface me. What a rusted ‘Bot.”

Swindle had been watching him descend into drunken babbling with the amusement of a bystander to a clown car pile-up, but the longer Meister rambled, the further those purple optics widened. They narrowed suddenly at his last proclamation. “Oh? Did you offer?”

Jazz felt a grim satisfaction at how well he’d set this up. Swindle kept his voice light, the dark violet stirring in the back of his optics was 100% pure possessive anger. That right there was a merchant suspecting someone had tampered with his goods.

Meister shrugged, blind to the danger. “’Course I did! He was deadersetter on shtaying loyal to yous.” 

Not entirely true, as Smokescreen had actually said something along the lines of, “I only take payment in shanix,” but the sentiment was technically there. Jazz had been watching the sleazebag for a while under the guise of Meister seeking his help. Smokescreen hadn’t changed all that much from his time as an Autobot. He still wouldn’t cheat if he was in a relationship, even if neither side of the relationship acknowledged they were involved. At least Swindle sure never acted as though they were together, and Smokescreen laughed the subject off. Yet Smokescreen refused every frag dropped into his lap, and wherever Swindle strayed, the whole moonbase knew the conmech would wander his way back to Smokescreen’s shuttle afterward.

“ **So** lucky,” Meister muttered as if to himself. “You don’t **know** what guys lilike me do tryiyiyiiii,” his vocalizer fuzzed to static and clicked as it went through reset, “wurrrreally want what you got. Loyal and committymented and keeps his words and, ffffffrag, he’s probabilibly put you on his life insurancemaniment polishcy!” He pointed an accusing finger toward one of the three Swindles he saw glaring at him, and all three sets of purple optics went wide as that struck home.

Life insurance? Smokescreen had life insurance? No, wait, of course Smokescreen had life insurance. Smokescreen gambled habitually, and insurance was just institutionalized gambling involving property, life, and natural disasters. 

Which begged the question whether or not Smokescreen was worth more dead than alive, now didn’t it?

Jazz faked a fendered processor crash right then, passing out with his forehelm on the bar. _Thunk._

He listened carefully for Swindle’s reaction. The best lies were true. Meister _was_ losing his mind over a lover who would interface with him but permit him not the slightest emotional attachment. He _had_ propositioned Smokescreen. Smokescreen _did_ have a peculiarly Autobot set of values, despite not being an Autobot anymore. The fact that Swindle didn’t know the whole truth about any of those things just made it easier to twist all the facts to fit Jazz’s narrative, filtering everything Swindle knew about Meister through half-lies just true enough to feel real. 

Everything he’d said rang true, so far as Swindle knew, but would that override whatever Swindle really felt for the mech he called his partner?. Swindle’s greed glitch had been activated by a lot less than half-truths, to be honest. It didn’t take much. It all depended on the whims of the cesspit the conmech called a spark.

Meister drooled on the bar, oblivious to the universe, but Jazz smirked behind his slack face as Swindle abruptly ordered another drink. A tad stressed, huh? Good. Time, greed, and the oncoming rebellion would only build the pressure higher, urging Swindle to grab what he could while the grabbing was good.

If he didn’t act on his greed, well, it’d be surprising but not the end of Jazz’s plans. There was more than one way to kill Smokescreen, after all, and Jazz didn’t need to be the one kissing him when it happened.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	10. Part 10: Competence

**Title:** Spare Tires  
 **Warning:** This inhabits a weird area where it’s a humor fic, but people sensitive to misunderstandings causing serious discomfort probably shouldn’t read.  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Autobots. And some Decepticons. Everybody?  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Scenes set in the Third Wheel fic universe without actually being in the story. Set between Pt. 14 and 15 of Third Wheel.

**[* * * * *]**

_" **Part 10:** Competence”_

**[* * * * *]**

Prowl was kind of oblivious when in the Zone. Given a tactical tabletop game and a series of new opponents, the TacHead had lapsed into silent thought so intense it radiated out from him like a cloud of sexy. Mechs kept wandering into range of his awesome and swooning. Perceptor was actively taking measurements, and Ambulon was following along behind putting down little caution markers on the floor.

To be honest, Smokescreen had enlisted Ambulon in the Prowl Support Group. The medic’s warning signs marked his estimated arms-reach of every mech attendance, and the perimeter he made behind Prowl was the first line of defense against anyone attempting a door-grab. Not that Smokescreen really thought anyone would try to grope a superior officer, but, well, Perceptor was measuring _something_. Nobody had managed to get a straight answer of what, yet, but Smokescreen wasn’t taking any chances.

Smokescreen himself stuck to weeding out anyone who drooled a bit too obviously. Prowl might be oblivious to his own powers of attraction, but puddles on the floor were a slipping hazard.

"An auditory element," Perceptor said as he passed by. His notes were going to be everyone’s favorite download for the next week, Smokescreen could tell. "Visual attraction creates stupefaction, and addition of demonstrated ability causes a magnetic draw on bystanders...possibility of unconscious use of previously unknown weaponry?"

Smokescreen gave the nearest camera a nervous look. "Primus, mech, don't suggest that. The last thing we need is Red Alert thinking the Decepticons have weaponized Prowl's bumper."

"There is an undeniable hypnotic effect, you must admit." Those close enough to hear Perceptor thinking aloud nodded agreement as they let themselves be hypnotized. Dat bumper.

Prowl, of course, didn't notice. His latest opponent had checked out halfway through, more occupied in unabashed staring than playing the game, but Prowl merely frowned and destroyed him. In combat games, a distracted enemy was an advantage. Moreover, while a distracted Decepticon opponent required additional analysis, there was no reason to analyze a fellow Autobot during a game. Why, it was almost relaxing. Prowl could demolish the other player without worry!

The slight smile Prowl wore during victory cut a devastating swathe through the crowd. Perceptor started pointed a handheld reader in his direction and muttering complicated scientific terminology Smokescreen was pretty sure he was just making up at this point. Ambulon began hauling the wobblier spectators out of the room before they collapsed. 

Prowl’s opponents didn’t stand a chance. It was just plain sad. It didn’t do much for the outpost’s reputation, either. Smokescreen had the feeling the Head of Strategic Planning thought nobody in the room right now should be allowed outside the barracks without an escort along to do their thinking for them.

Fortunately for their collective pride, at least one mech among them could hold his own even when faced with a brilliant, gorgeous mech.

Prowl was deep in the Zone, but a mech had to be blind and deaf to remain unaware of Wheeljack. Especially once Warpath succumbed to the absolute hotness of Wheeljack actually _holding his own_ against the Autobots' premier strategist. Most people would slip gently up behind their lover, maybe place a hand on one shoulder in encouragement, perhaps whisper a sweet word of encouragement in an audio so as to not distract the concentrating player. Warpath being Warpath, such subtleties were ignored in favor of plopping right smack into Wheeljack's lap to loudly cheer him on between not-so-subtly grinding his aft as the game revved him up.

Prowl tried not to stare. It wasn't polite. Smokescreen debated moseying over to tell him the pair got off on being watched. So the theory went, anyway. The outpost couldn’t tell if Wheeljack and Warpath were exhibitionists or just laser-focused on each other to exclusion of the rest of the world.

Except for the explosions, of course. They were never too distracted for explosions. Sometimes distracted enough to _cause_ explosions, but that was more along the lines of inspiration, as Prowl was discovering.

"There's a blockade in my way," Wheeljack said thoughtfully, blast mask nuzzled into the side of Warpath's neck as though it helped him think. "Can I...mmm, can't go around. Can I...blow it up? I bet I can blow it up. Do the rules say I can't blow it up?" His fingers twitched on Warpath's waist, and the spectators all grinned at Prowl's confused alarm. That was a common enough response from people in his situation, although usually the ‘Cons on the receiving end of Wheeljack's moments of inspiration didn't see the explosion coming.

"I don't believe -- " Prowl started, but Smokescreen already had the rulesheet open, glowing words scrolling above the holographic armies. " -- I apologize, I was incorrect. You, ah, may blow up the blockade." If, that was, Wheeljack's forces had the appropriate materials in their convoy. From the sour look Prowl's face, they did. Evidently he hadn't anticipated an opponent with an engineering background eager to use alternative means of combat.

"I'm-a blow it up," Wheeljack said, audio fins lit in dazzling glee, and Prowl gave him an intent look, the look of someone attempting to solve a problem. It was the look of someone who’d finally met a challenge. The engineer began giving the tiny blips marking science officers in his army specific orders on what to do with explosive materials, and Prowl’s interest deepened.

His wasn’t the only one. "WhaPOW!" Warpath said and gave a very purposeful wriggle.

Prowl dropped his optics back to the table hastily as Wheeljack multitasked. Everyone else took notes like Perceptor.

**[* * * * *]**

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Eeeee...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6941791) by [Jimiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jimiel/pseuds/Jimiel)




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